


Oh, The Places You'll Go!

by MdeCarabas



Series: Oh, The Places You'll Go! [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Doc/O'Malley, Bullying, M/M, Sexism, Slow Burn, Unconventional Families, background Carolina/York, background Church/Tex - Freeform, background Grif/Simmons - Freeform, coming to terms with sexuality, critical parents, mild biphobia/homophobia, past Doc/Wash - Freeform, reference to animal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 114,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MdeCarabas/pseuds/MdeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On New Year's Eve 2013, Wash and Tucker share a moment on a roof and then go their separate ways. Eight months later, Tucker hires a personal trainer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Year's Eve

It’s not a bad night to hide from everyone, Wash thinks to himself. At least it’s warm tonight. But then, the weather here is always warm, even smack dab in the middle of the winter. He’s still not entirely used to it, but he’s glad for it if it means he can stand out here without freezing until he’s ready to go back inside.

It’s New Year’s Eve and instead of having a good time with everyone else, Wash is standing on the rooftop of Carolina’s apartment because his ex-boyfriend just showed up to the celebration with his new boyfriend in tow. It’s actually someone he’s met before, which only makes things worse: a shady former black-ops guy with a reputation for unnecessary violence. Wash wants to warn Frank about him, but he can’t figure out a way to do that without coming off like a jealous ex.

But then maybe he _is_ a jealous ex, because there’s no reason to assume that a guy that gets a little aggressive on the job is the type to take that behavior home. Even North occasionally gets vicious while working (usually if someone is threatening his sister), but Wash has never heard him so much as raise his voice in anger once he’s off the clock. It’s entirely possible O’Malley is the same.

He’s beginning to think he should get over it already.

After all, Frank and O’Malley have only been dating for a few weeks and Frank is already preparing to transfer to a new city in order to be closer to him. You can’t get much more serious than that. Hell, he and Wash dated for nearly three years and neither of them ever once discussed the possibility of living together. So maybe it’s true that their relationship had flaws in it that were visible for miles, but that still doesn’t mean that he’s ready to see Frank happy with someone who isn’t him.

But he’s been hiding out here for forty-five minutes and it’s time to bite the bullet and go. He sighs deeply as he turns to go inside and braces himself for a couple of hours of emotional agony, polite conversation and sympathetic looks from all of his friends. It’s going to be the worst night he’s ever had…

And just as he’s thinking that, the door flies open and narrowly avoids smacking him in the face. Wash stumbles back in surprise, watching as a bleary-faced stranger staggers through the opening, banging his knee twice on the door-hinge and nearly tripping on his own two feet. Wash grabs him before he can fall to the ground and pushes him back until he’s resting against the nearest wall.

“Oh shit, sorry about that,” the stranger says.

Wash ignores the apology in favor of stating the obvious. “I have no idea who you are, but seeing as how you can barely walk, I don’t think the roof is the safest place for you.”

The man makes an unpleasant face that does nothing to disguise how good-looking he is. He’s only a little bit shorter than Wash, with dark skin and long black curls that frame a face too striking to be called pretty. Wash gulps as the man sways into him, gazing up at Wash as he tilts his head back and stares at him with eyes that are dark and heavy-lidded. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks I could pass a sobriety test with no problem,” he declares, carefully enunciating each and every word without the slightest hint of a slur.

The man pushes himself out of Wash’s arms and backs up a few steps to the side. He looks down and slowly raises his right foot in the air, carefully balanced, and stays that way for a full thirty seconds. Wash is reluctantly impressed. “Okay,” he admits, “Maybe you’re not as drunk as I thought you were.”

“Damn straight,” the man says defiantly. “Now watch this—“ He throws his arms to either side, still balanced on one foot, extends one finger and one hand and brings it towards his nose…and misses entirely, clipping his right eye and falling to the ground with a cry of pain.

“—or maybe you’re exactly as drunk as I thought you were.”

He sighs and leans down to help the man off the floor, but the stranger waves off Wash’s hand and continues to lie there without moving. “Don’t tell Tex,” the man pleads piteously, “She’s the reason I came up here in the first place. I can’t afford to pay that bet off. I won’t have pizza money for a month.”

“You probably should have thought of that before you made it,” Wash points out reproachfully, even as his mind is running frantically. Friends with Tex usually meant friends from work, but seeing as how Wash doesn’t recognize him, it must be a friend from her personal life…which means the friends she shares with Church and Carolina. That narrows it down to a handful of people, only two of which any of them mentions on a regular basis.

Wash takes a stab in the dark. “Is your name Tucker?”

“Yeah?” the man replies distractedly. His eyes were resting on the night sky, but at the question they flit back to Wash in sudden suspicion. “Wait, how do you know my name?”

“Lucky guess,” Wash replies. He takes a few steps closer to Tucker and looks down at him in total amusement. “Are you planning on getting up any time soon, or are you going to just lay there blocking the door all evening?”

“I can’t really feel my legs right now, so I think I’m gonna take the second option,” Tucker jokes lazily. He eyes Wash for a moment, squinting up at him thoughtfully. “Hey, you should come down in case Tex shows up. That way I won’t look drunk and suspicious.”

The dim glow from the streetlamps hitting the roof does nothing to take away from how Tucker looks right now: loose-limbed and inviting, shirt riding up and giving a tantalizing glimpse of skin. Wash knows a bad idea when he sees one, but something makes him want to lie down regardless. “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he says softly.

He stretches out on the ground a few inches away, stiff and awkward until he forces his body to relax. Even with Tucker next to him doing the same, he still feels a little ridiculous. He wonders how the others would react in they came up and saw. He wonders if sprawling on the floor with a drunken stranger would make him look more or less pathetic in their eyes.

The rustle of movement to his right draws his attention. He watches as Tucker rocks onto his side until he’s facing Wash, bringing them closer than strangers should be. This close, he can feel the warm puff of Tucker’s breath against his skin, can see how Tucker’s brown eyes hold a hint of amber; he doesn’t feel stupid about laying here anymore, not with a sight like this to enjoy.

“So why are you out here alone, anyway?” Tucker asks curiously, “Don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a party going on a floor below us.”

It would be pretty hard to miss--even up here, the sound of music and laughter is unmistakable. “I showed up to the party almost an hour ago,” Wash admits reluctantly, “Just as I was about to open the door, I got a text from a friend of mine warning me that my ex arrived. I must have just missed him.”

Tucker’s eyes go wide. “Shit, dude. Yeah, that’ll do it alright.”

“As if that wasn’t bad enough, he brought his new boyfriend along to introduce to all of our friends,” Wash says bitterly. “His new boyfriend, I might add, that I occasionally work with and have known for years.”

“Fuuuuck.”

There’s a strange sense of satisfaction that runs through him when he sees the effect his explanation has on Tucker. He’s had more than his fair share of sympathy these days. He doesn’t want it anymore—has never wanted it the way people gave it to him. The indignation in Tucker’s eyes is so much easier for him to handle. Somehow it makes it easier to explain. “And I’d just like to point out that we only broke up a few months ago and they’re already moving in together.

Tucker whistles through his teeth. “Okay, seriously, dude, do you want me to go downstairs and sneak you up something to drink? Because that sucks _major_ balls.”

He feels his lips quirk up in unexpected amusement. “I appreciate the offer,” Wash says honestly, “But if you’re trying to hold on to your pizza money it’s probably not the best decision you could make.”

Tucker pauses as he considers those words, face scrunching up comically as he struggles to figure out a way to do both. Finally he seems to come to a decision. “Okay, yeah, I guess,” he admits, “But if anyone deserves to get drunk tonight, it’s you. Getting you quality alcohol can be my first good deed of the year.”

Wash looks at him incredulously. “That’s your idea of a good deed? Getting someone drunk?”

Tucker waves a hand airily around. “Yeah, cause I believe in freedom,” he says pompously, “Specifically the freedom to get wasted and avoid your problems. It’s the American way. I’m like a patriot or something.”

Which is so outlandish and so amazingly stupid that Wash feels a frission of delight rush through his veins, mirth bubbling up until he can’t help but beam. “Wise words from a drunk man,” he teases affectionately.

Tucker makes a noise of protest. “I told you, I’m not that drunk! I passed half a sobriety test!”

Washington bursts out laughing. He curls up with his amusement, stomach aching from the force of his convulsions, chest aching as he gasps for breath. For the first time since he broke up with Frank, the grief and bitterness seems far away, and it’s all thanks to this ridiculous man in front of him.

Tucker looks startled, then pleased. He stretches like a cat, smug and boneless, leaning in until Tucker’s whole body is flush with his, a beacon of warmth against Wash’s side. He doesn’t seem to notice. Wash definitely does.

“I got you to laugh,” Tucker says proudly.

Wash has to catch his breath before answering, clearing his throat as he tears his eyes away from the thin strip of skin still on display. “Yes, you did,” he says honestly, “Does that seem odd to you?”

Tucker just shrugs in response. “I don’t know, you just don’t look like the type of guy who laughs a lot.”

Was it that obvious, even to a stranger? York is always accusing him of being too serious for his own good. It’s not like he _means_ to be that way, he just gets a little caught up in rules and regulations sometimes. Is that really so bad?

“Hey,” Tucker says, nudging him companionably, “Don’t worry about it so much. I can practically hear your brain ticking away. It’s loud as fuck, dude.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turns on his side until he’s mirroring Tucker and for a few seconds they do nothing but gaze at each other in silence, listening to the muffled music and conversation from below. He breathes out slowly, eyes flickering over Tucker’s face as contentment drifts softly over him. He feels half-drunk with how at ease with the world he is right now, and he can’t remember ever feeling this way before.

“Thank you,” Wash murmurs softly.

Tucker doesn’t recoil from his nearness or the tenderness of the moment. He doesn’t change the subject to make things a little less honest and emotional. He doesn’t do anything but blink sleepily at him in faint confusion, heavy-eyed and drowsy from all the liquor he’s had. “Thanks for what?”

For being here when I needed someone, he wants to say. For making me smile when I thought I forgot how. But those things are too personal for a stranger’s ear, even one who makes him feel like this.

“Thank you for offering,” he says instead.

Tucker hums and wraps an arm around him. “Offer’s still on the table whenever you need it.”

“I know,” Wash says simply, “But I don’t think I will.”


	2. Second First Meetings

Tucker doesn’t know what he expected when he walked inside. A pile of corpses carelessly thrown in a corner, maybe, or bullet marks dotting every wall—anything but the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the nicest place he’s ever been.

The building is well lit for a place filled with people who can kill you with their pinky.

York motions for Tucker to follow him out of the entryway. “There’s a parking lot around the back that you can use while you’re here,” he says as they walk down the hall, “It’s kind of small, but most of us’ll be gone by the time you show up, so feel free to park wherever’s available.” He grins and nudges Tucker in the side. “I don’t think anyone’ll complain about stolen parking spaces, but if they do send them to me. Or heck, send them to Carolina—she’s twice as scary as I’ll ever be!”

Tucker smirks back. He knows how to handle himself just fine, but it’s always nice to be reminded of the fact that some of the scariest people in the world have his back on a regular basis.

“The showers are down the hall over by the staircase,” York says, pointing it out so Tucker can see it clearly, “And the bathroom you’ll be using is inside. Wash probably would have told you all this anyway, but it can’t hurt to hear it twice.”

He pauses in the middle of the floor and holds up a hand that stops Tucker in his tracks. There’s a dark, serious look in his eyes that’s at odds with the friendliness from before. “Carolina may have convinced her dad to let you use the gym for a few months, but he was pretty clear about upstairs being off limits,” York says evenly, “Now, you won’t be able to get through the security up there, but if you try it’s not gonna be you who gets in trouble, alright? So if I were you, I’d think twice about getting curious.”

Tucker’s been friends with Tex for almost ten years and he’s known Carolina for twice as long as that. He’s been stared down by his share of scary people, okay? And York? He’s not nearly as intimidating as he thinks he is. But hey, he’s still a pretty nice guy, so Tucker only rolls his eyes instead of pointing that out.

“Whatever, dude,” Tucker replies, “I’m here to get a six pack, not to fuck with people who kick ass for a living. I don’t give a shit about what you guys do up there.”

“Good to know,” York says approvingly. His face smooths out until it’s back to its usual amiability and he starts walking again as if he wasn’t being threatening two seconds ago. But that’s pretty standard for Tex’s friends, so Tucker just shrugs and follows him down the hall until they pause in front of a door. “One more thing before you go inside…”

“Yeah?” Tucker asks warily.

York runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it sheepishly. “Look, I don’t know what the others told you about Wash, but…well, he’s a great guy, really he is, but don’t be surprised if he’s a little more serious than you’re used to.”

Well _fuck_.

Tucker’s not nervous or anything, but this is the third time in as many days that someone felt the need to warn him about the guy—technically the fourth if you count Church, who called him a major hard-ass and promptly bet on how long it would take Tucker to come home crying. Anyone would start getting a little weirded out by now.

York laughs at whatever expression is on his face. “Don’t take it like that! I don’t mean serious in a _bad_ way,” he says reassuringly, “He might be a little strict sometimes, but that’s the kind of thing you want in a personal trainer.”

“If you say so,” Tucker says skeptically.

York gives a little huff of amusement. “Just go easy on him, will ya? He’s been freaking out about something all this week and I don’t think he can handle any more stress.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking him to go easy on me?”

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” York assures him, “I bet you’ll be the best of friends in no time.” He pulls the door open in one smooth motion and then shoves him into the room without waiting for a response, calling out cheerfully to the guy inside. “Hey Wash, I’ve got your newest victim right here!”

Thanks a lot, Tucker thinks sourly.

Well, York was right about one thing—the guy _does_ seem kind of jittery. He jolts the second they walk in, coming to a halt so quickly it’s immediately clear that he was pacing right before they walked in. York either doesn’t notice or is pretending not to, because he bounds over to the guy and throws an arm around his shoulder like nothing is wrong.

“Wash, this is Lavernius Tucker,” York begins, waving a hand in Tucker’s direction. “Tucker, this is Wash. The two of you will be spending a lot of time together for the next couple of months, so I suggest you try your best to get along with each other.”

“Hey,” Tucker says easily.

There’s a strange light in Wash’s eyes when their gazes first meet. It’s filled with so much more than he can make out with a single glance: hope and eagerness, nerves and anticipation—all of it flickering over his face, and all of it completely out of place. He watches as it slowly fades from sight only to be replaced by disappointment.

Tucker shifts uneasily as he waits for a response, growing increasingly edgy as time goes by. Finally, he turns to York with a look of disbelief. “Okay, you said he was serious, not creepy,” he blurts out nervously, “I didn’t sign up for creepy!”

York eyes dart back and forth between them, looking just as weirded out as Tucker. But whatever, he’s not the one who has to spend the next couple of months with this guy, so he’d better fucking step up. “Uh, Wash?” he says urgently, “Say something, buddy, you’re not exactly helping the situation.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Tucker waits for more, but nothing comes. The guy just stares at him without moving or replying, doing the best statue impression Tucker’s ever seen. “Seriously, that’s all you’re gonna say?” he asks incredulously, “You gotta be fucking kidding me with this.”

York glances back at Tucker, eyebrows raised in dismay. ”Right, well I can see the two of you are off to a great start, so I’ll just leave to get acquainted with each other.” He backs up a few steps, shrugging off Tucker’s glare. “Uh…try not to kill each other, okay?”

The door closes behind him with disconcerting finality.

It takes a good minute for Wash to break his silence. When he does, it’s not to deliver an apology for his weirdness or say anything that actually makes sense, but to say something so completely unexpected that it leaves Tucker reeling where he stands.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

Tucker blinks rapidly as he struggles to catch up. “Uh, no,” he says automatically, shaking his head in denial. Then he reconsiders the thought, peering at Wash for a clue to his identity. “Wait, should I? Do we know each other or something?”

“You could say that,” Wash says with a sigh. His shoulders slump in disappointment, mouth curving down unhappily even as holds out a hand for Tucker to shake. “The name is David Washington, but you can call me Wash.”

Tucker shakes it somewhat apologetically. “Sorry, dude, but if we met before then I don’t remember it.”

“That much is obvious.”

He watches as Wash heaves a sigh for the second time that night. He’s kind of curious about the whole meeting thing, but the tension between them has only just begun to dissipate and he’s not too eager to bring it back. Besides, it’s not enough to make Wash throw punches, so it’s not like it could be all _that_ important.

“So you’re one of York and Carolina’s best friends, right?” Tucker says, changing the subject easily. He shifts on his feet, ignoring the look of surprise in Wash’s eyes. “That’s cool. Guess that means you work for the Director, too. Is he a huge dick at work, or is that more of a part-time hobby? York never gives me a straight answer when I ask.”

He’s not dumb enough to insult his girlfriend’s dad, anyway. Plus, it’s not like he and Tucker are what you’d call _friends_. They didn’t hate each other or anything, but they still only hang out when one of the others are around. When it comes down to it, the only freelancers he’s actually friends with are the ones he knew before they got the job: Carolina, from their shared teen years, and Tex from her long-term on-again, off-again relationship with Tucker’s best friend.

“I wouldn’t call him a dick, exactly,” Washington hedges. His voice is strained and hilariously tense, like the idea of insulting his boss is alarming instead of something people do every day. “He’s just a little uncompromising. He’s very detail oriented. It’s important for a man of his position.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Wow, that’s really convincing.”

“You don’t need to be convincing when you’re telling the truth.”

Wash cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, which means he knows _exactly_ how stupid that sounds. “Look, I know he can be a little severe,” he admits, “But he really is good at his job and I think that deserves our respect.”

 _Yours,_ maybe, Tucker thinks. That boat sailed for him a long, long time ago, and he’s never gonna feel that way again. He’s not gonna do the whole robot thing like Wash, spitting out pre-programmed compliments at appropriate intervals, carefully explaining every awful thing about the Director away. He’s not like Wash. He’s not like _Carolina._

“Uh-huh. Sure, cool,” Tucker says spitefully, “Hey, is it true you guys call him the Director because he looks like he makes the really kinky porn?” He smirks at the look of horror on Washington’s face. “You know, the kind with tentacles and torture devices. I just wanna know so I have something to tease Church about.”

“He doesn’t look like he makes creepy porn!” Wash says defensively, voice rising to a shrill pitch. Then he realizes what he said and immediately rushes to correct himself. “He doesn’t look like he makes porn at all! Why the hell would you think something like that?”

Tucker bites back the snicker that wants to escape. Wash is the picture of panic and dismay. His eyes are wide and his shoulders tight with tension, fingers clenching mindlessly in the air as if fighting back the urge to strangle someone. Tucker couldn’t have asked for a better response.

“Uh, should I stick around for this conversation?”

They glance over to the door to see York halfway through the act of putting his jacket on. He grins at them from the entrance to the room, snickering when Wash squirms in embarrassment. “Because it sounds like you two are having a really interesting talk,” he continues impishly, “And I don’t think I want to miss a second of it.”

Wash rubs his temples, looking pained. “No. You’re not staying. You’re going to go home and forget this conversation ever happened. In fact, _all_ of us are going to pretend this conversation never happened.” He turns to Tucker with narrowed eyes and says in a voice that broaches no argument, “Is everybody on board with that?”

York gives a textbook salute that earns him a scowl from Wash. “Aye-Aye, Captain Washington,” he says cheerfully, “No one will ever remember the time you talked about what kind of porn the Director is into.”

Wash twitches, but gives that up as a losing battle. He turns his look on Tucker instead of saying anything to York, waiting expectantly for his agreement, foot tapping impatiently against the floor.

Tucker shrugs. “Eh, I’ll think about it.”

The look of frustration on Washington’s face is nothing short of spectacular. York bursts out laughing the second he sees it, chortling as he leans against the nearest wall for support. “Oh man, I can already tell this is gonna go great,” he says with pleasure, “One of you has got to call me up when this is all over and tell me everything that went on.”

Washington exhales noisily. “I’ve been here for five minutes and I already regret agreeing to do this. I’m sure that bodes well for our time together.”

“Hey, no one said I had to—“

Wash shoots a dirty look Tucker’s way, shutting him up mid-sentence. “Don’t you start with me again,” he warns grumpily before turning to York, “As for you—I know that interrupting other people’s work is something of a hobby for you, but I assume Carolina will be expecting you home at some point.”

“Sure will be,” York replies. He winks at Wash, who ignores it with a long-suffering air. “Talk to you tomorrow, Captain Wash,” he says teasingly, “And Tucker—I imagine I’ll be seeing you at the Director’s this weekend.”

“You know me. Always where the party’s at,” Tucker says agreeably.

York nods and wiggles his fingers in a farewell. The room goes silent and uncomfortable in the wake of his departure, as if he took all the affability with him when he went, leaving nothing but an unpleasant tenseness in its place.

Wash glances at him out of the corner of his eye.”You made it sound like you hated the Director.” he begins slowly, head tilted in curiosity, “Or, at the very least, you seemed to think he was—“

“—a dick?” Tucker finishes. He shrugs lazily. His dislike for the Director goes back a long way. It isn’t going to go away any time soon, not unless Church’s dad decided to get a personality transplant or a lobotomy or plain old get laid for once. ”Yeah, so what?”

Wash’s eyebrows furrow in response. “So why are you going to his house this weekend?”

“Because that’s where the barbecue is being held?” Tucker says uncertainly, “That’s where they _always_ have the barbecue. I thought you knew.” Though now that he thinks about it, it doesn’t really make sense that he hasn’t seen Wash before. “Wait, why don’t you ever come? Didn’t they tell you about it?”

“They did, yes,” Wash replies, and then continues in a voice unexpectedly heavy with meaning, “I’ve just been keeping myself busy this year.”

Tucker isn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. Wash’s issues are none of Tucker’s business; he’s here to get in shape and look good doing it, not act as a therapist to a guy he just met. Or, more specifically, met a while ago, promptly forgot about and then met again. Whatever. Speaking of which…

“When did we meet anyway?” Tucker asks, frowning to himself. He squints thoughtfully, trying to place the steel grey eyes or the short blond hair, even trailing over the hard muscles of Wash’s chest and arms just in case they got in a fight that miraculously didn’t end with him dying slowly in a ditch. He’s got a pretty good memory for faces, but he can’t remember meeting Wash at all.

Wash stiffens in response to the question. Tucker watches in fascination as he goes from normal guy back to the creepy awkward statue in less than two seconds. With what looks like extreme difficulty, Wash admits, “We met at last year’s New Year’s Eve party.”

Oh. Oh, shiiiit.

Okay, that might explain a few things. Tucker doesn’t remember most of that night, but everyone tells him that after going missing for almost an hour, he staggered back into the apartment, handed Tex a couple of twenties and proceed to get completely wasted for the rest of the night. And when Tucker gets wasted, _things_ happen.

He shifts from one foot to another, frantically trying to figure out what he could have done and debating whether or not to hightail it out of there right now. He twitches and blurts out, “Alright, so if you’re pissed ‘cause I tried to crawl in your lap that night, then I’d just like to mention that I can’t help getting really cuddly when I’m drunk. It’s like a condition.”

“What,” Wash says flatly.

“And you can’t judge me if I offered to give you a lap dance either, because I actually got money for that once and now drunk me thinks it’s his fucking part-time job,” Tucker says defensively, “All you had to do was tell me that you didn’t bring singles and I’d have backed the hell off.”

Washington blinks rapidly in total bewilderment. Slowly, as if handling a bomb, he says, “If I assure you that you didn’t do any of those things you just mentioned, will you stop talking about your strange, drunken habits so we can move on to discussing what kind of workout you’re looking for?”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Tucker admits.

Wash gestures expectantly.

Oh, right.

“I’m just doing this to impress the ladies,” Tucker says hastily. Then he realizes how that sounds and rushes to explain. “Not that they need to be impressed! The ladies love me. I’m practically beating them off with a stick.”

“I’m sure.”

“I just need to, y’know, turn up the hotness until I’m completely irresistible,” Tucker continues. Maybe make it so that he gets laid more than twice next summer, because his dry spell over the last few months is getting kind of depressing. “You can do that, right?”

“I’ll try my best,” Wash says sardonically, “Just don’t expect miracles.”

Tucker rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Please, you don’t have to tell me that,” he responds, smirking smugly back at Wash, “I know it’s hard to top perfection.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “Right. Then let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Tucker collapses on the gym mat groaning in pain. “All I wanted was a six-pack,” he moans plaintively, He looks up at Wash, who is gazing down at him with the most unimpressed look Tucker has seen since the last time Carolina had to bail him out of jail. “Are you Satan?” Tucker asks miserably, “Is this Hell? Am I being punished for something?”

“You’re not being punished. I’m just doing the job you’re paying me for,” Washington says, shooting an exasperated look his way. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you always this dramatic? I’m only asking so I know how much whining to prepare for in the future.”

Tucker lies there pitifully, too tired to yell at Wash or storm out the way he wants to. “I’m serious,” he complains, “I don’t think I can move my fucking legs.” He considers that for a second, coming to an awful realization that fills him with horror. “Fuck, I think I have to live here now.”

“I suppose that answers _that_ question.”

Tucker shoots Wash the darkest look he’s capable of and imagines punching him in the face as hard as he can. Even the thought of it sends a satisfied thrill through him, giving him the burst of energy he needs to raise a single finger in the air in response.

Wash ignores that and bends down to crouch next to him on the floor. “Look,” he begins earnestly, placing a friendly hand on Tucker’s shoulder, “I know this is hard right now, but I’m not actually trying to push you past your limits. You may be tired, but you still managed to get through the entire workout without an excessive amount of trouble.”

At this point, Tucker really doesn’t care and he’s definitely not in the mood to hear it. “So fucking what,” he says bitterly, rolling his shoulder just enough to dislodge Washington’s hand. “That doesn’t mean I want to do it again.”

“But it does mean that you can handle this,” Washington says firmly. He climbs to his feet and pulls Tucker with him, lifting him as if it were effortless. “I talked to both Carolina and Texas before tonight, and do you know what they told me? They told me that you would whine and complain every step of the way, but that if I just kept pushing, you would prove yourself to be capable of handling anything I threw at you.”

 _Wow_.

Tucker feels his lips curl up into a smile entirely against his own will. “I’m actually pretty embarrassed for you right now,” he says in amused disbelief, “Next time you lie to me, you should probably try something a little more believable.”

Wash considers that and nods ruefully. “Overt praise isn’t really their style, is it?”

That’s for fucking sure. If he had tried something a little bit meaner or a lot more sarcastic, it actually might have worked on him. Well, no, that’s a total lie, because no amount of pep talks are going to erase the fact that Tucker currently feels like shit.“I’m not doing this again,” he says mulishly. “This is so not worth it.”

Wash studies him thoughtfully. “Are you in pain?” he asks suddenly. Tucker’s knee-jerk response is an emphatic yes, and maybe Wash senses that because he immediately holds up a hand in protest. “Don’t just say yes automatically. Actually think about it before you respond. Now, _are you in pain_?”

His legs are shaking like they’re made of rubber and he’s sweating in places he didn’t know you could, but to his surprise there is no pain, only a dull ache and the feeling he could sleep for days. “No,” Tucker says in astonishment, “I guess not.”

Washington nods slowly. “Good. Now, you gripe all you want, but if you keep coming to our appointments then I will make sure you get the best workout you are capable of doing.” There’s a solemn look in his dark eyes of his that make it impossible to look away. “So what’ll it be, Tucker? Are you going to give up on your very first day, or are you going to see what you can do when you keep working at it?”

Wash, he muses, isn’t like a statue or robot at all. He’s too nice and earnest for that. He’s more like a house that’s pure white and perfectly clean, too orderly to be a home and way too perfect for anyone to be comfortable in.

Tucker never liked spotless houses.

His Great Aunt’s Stella’s house was like that, filled with plastic covered chairs and lemon scented chemicals, so neat it made him feel grimy by comparison. It made him twitchy whenever he had to stay there for longer than a week, and he’d inevitably find a way to ruin it before long. He was never more comfortable over there than when he was tracking muddy footprints throughout the house like cartoon maps telling everyone where he’d been.

When he grew older, his methods changed, and he eventually learned to mark his place in the world with pillows on the floor and clothes strewn on chairs. But the urge— _that_ never faded, not even a little, and it’s that same perverse need to mess something up that causes him to say what he does next.

“Bring it on,” Tucker says with a grin.


	3. The Barbecue (Part 1)

It’s seven thirty on a Saturday morning and Tucker refuses to take a single step out of his apartment until he’s had at least two cups of coffee.

“Fucking _work_ ,” Tucker snaps as he hits the side of the coffeemaker in irritation. Everyone said getting one of those automatic coffee machines would be way more convenient, but they never fucking mentioned how much it sucked when it breaks down.

He never had this problem with the kind you put on the stove.

“We’re gonna be late,” Junior points out unhelpfully, “We’re supposed to be there at before ten.”

“I _know_ , Junior,” Tucker grumbles. He opens the lid and peers inside, hoping to see like a lego or shoelace or _something_ inside—anything to get this show on the road. “I knew when you told me five minutes ago.

Junior scowls and climbs up on the kitchen counter next to him, immediately swinging his feet in the air so that his heels thud against the wood in the most annoying way possible. “Why can’t I go to the barbecue?” he whines sullenly, “It’s not fair. I wanted to play with Theta.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Dude, you hung out with Theta a couple of days ago. Give him a break, okay? You don’t wanna look clingy—fucking life lesson, right there.” The thud that comes next rattles the pots and pans under the sink. With a sigh, Tucker closes the lid on the machine and turns to look at his son.

Junior peers up at him with those stupid brown bambi eyes of his that always makes Tucker want to give in. “Look, your mom gets you on the weekends, alright?” he says patiently, “That’s the deal. So you’re gonna have to wait until you get back to hang out with him.”

Junior shakes his head, curls flying wildly. “But I wanna hang out with him at the _barbecue,_ ” he protests. He tries to inch closer even though there isn’t any more room, pleading with Tucker with his eyes. “It’s not fair! Everyone gets to go but me—even _Theta!_ ”

Which is true, and probably the only reason Junior’s making such a big deal about it now. He doesn’t care how boring it is to go to a party with a bunch of adults; the only thing that matters is that Theta gets to go, and there’s nothing worse to a little kid than your friend getting to go somewhere you can’t.

“Hey, stop whining,” he says teasingly, reaching out to ruffle Junior’s hair. He tugs on one of those wild curls, grinning when it makes Junior’s nose scrunch up in that way it does when he’s trying to stay mad. “All I get to eat is a bunch of stupid hotdogs all day. Your grandma’s gonna make you something _way_ better than that, but you don’t hear me bitching about it, do you?”

Junior ducks his head, hiding a sudden grin from sight. “She said she’s gonna make a cake for me today,” he says smugly, “With strawberries and chocolate and sprinkles on top.” He wiggles on the counter in barely concealed excitement, feet jostling against Tucker’s thigh. “I’m not gonna save you a piece. I’m gonna eat it _all_.”

Tucker crosses his arms defiantly. “Fine, then I’m not gonna save you a hotdog,” he says with a mock glare, “And I’m gonna eat all your cereal too, even those gross Wheaties that no one but you and Simmons likes.”

Junior giggles.

“Seriously, dude, the pantry’s gonna be empty by the time you get back,” Tucker warns him, “You’re gonna have to eat peanut butter crackers and Cheese Wiz for breakfast all month. I hope the cake is worth it, ‘cause you’re gonna be eating like a college kid for awhile.”

“Grandma’s cakes are always good,” Junior replies calmly. He hops down from the counter and bends to pick his backpack off the floor, gazing up at Tucker with an expectant look on his face. “Can I get hot chocolate from Dunkin Donuts?”

“What?” Tucker asks, a little off-kilter from the sudden change of subject, “We’re not—oh, shit, yeah. Coffee. Good idea.” He perks up at the thought of that second cup, hands already moving to dig his keys out of his pocket as he bustles them both out the room.

Junior waits until Tucker’s locking up the front door to make his move. “Hey, dad?” he says nonchalantly, “I’ll save you some cake if you let me stay up late all next week.” He carefully doesn’t meet Tucker’s eyes, which means he doesn’t want to seem as eager as he is.

Tucker smirks. “I don’t know. It’d have to be a big piece.”

“I’ll get you _two_ pieces,” Junior promises, excitement filling his voice with glee. He bounces on the balls of his feet, practically dancing in place now that he thinks he has a shot. “Or I can tell Grandma it’s your birthday this week and then she’ll make you a whole cake to eat!”

Kinda manipulative, but okay.

Tucker pretends to think about it for a second, making a big show out of wavering on the edge of agreement. “Well,” he says slowly, “I _guess_ we could do that.” Junior’s eyes go wide and happy. “But instead I’m just gonna make you go to sleep when you’re supposed to.” He bursts out laughing at the look of betrayal Junior gives him. “What, did you really think that would work on me? _Weak_ , dude.”

“You suck,” Junior says with a scowl.

Tucker grins down at him for a moment and then practically dives forward to thrust both hands in Junior’s hair and shake it frantically until it’s a rumpled mess and Junior flails and yells at him to stop. “What _ever_ ,” Tucker replies, “But you’re still gonna get me a slice of cake, right?”

Junior wrinkles his nose and nods.

 

* * *

 

He gets back to his apartment about five hours later, which leaves him just enough time to take a nap before he has to get up and make his way over to the Director’s. He’s halfway tempted to blow it off, but he knows that if he doesn’t go he’ll wind up sleeping the whole day away, and then where will he be? Wide awake at three in the morning wondering if Junior got to sleep alright.

Fuck _that_.

Tucker refuses to let himself become one of those dads who act like the world is ending just because their kid has a life. No. Fucking Way. That’s not gonna happen. So instead of acting like a sulky little bitch about it, Tucker gets off his ass after two hours of sleep and drives across town to hang out with his friends and get drunk on beer he didn’t have to buy himself.

It’s not until he sees Carolina stalking toward him that he remembers that it was his turn to help set up for the party. “It’s Junior’s fault,” he blurts out as soon as she’s near, hands waving wildly in the air to ward off the oncoming lecture.

She arches an eyebrow as if to ask if that’s really where he’s going with this. “Are you actually trying to blame your son for not doing the work you promised to do?” she asks drily, “That’s pathetic, Tucker, even for you.”

He has to be careful with what he says next. Carolina’s got a soft spot for Junior that might work to his advantage, but she’s known Tucker since he was a kid. He doesn’t have a single tell left she doesn’t know. “No, really,” he insists carefully, “He didn’t want to go to his mom’s today, so I had to deal with that before we could leave.”

Those were probably the last words she ever expected to leave his mouth. She knows just as well as he does that Junior _loves_ going to his mom’s place. They spoil him like crazy when he’s over there and he’s always coming back packed to the gills with cookies and stories about all the places he went.

Carolina frowns in concern. “That’s not like him. Is something—?”

Tucker shakes his head dismissively. “Nah, he’s just feeling left out because he never gets to come here,” he explains, “It’s cool, I fixed it. I told him I was gonna eat all the food while he’s gone. But yeah, we wound up getting out way later than we usually do.”

“Hmm,” she says as she squints at him suspiciously. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, pointedly holding it up in the air. “And if I call him up right now, he’s going to confirm this story?”

Wait, what?

“Uh…yes?” Tucker says weakly. Then he straightens his back and continues on with a lot more confidence. “I mean, _yeah_ , of course. Why would I lie?”

She rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother responding to that part. “So if you’re not lying, then you won’t mind if I test that out,” she says, and without giving him a chance to protest, she says clearly into the phone, “Siri, call Junior.”

Carolina doesn’t take her eyes off him as they wait for Junior to pick up, but he’s not a little boy anymore and he refuses to give her the satisfaction of admitting he lied even for something as stupid as this. “You’re wasting your time,” he says defiantly, “He’s gonna say exactly what I—“

“Hi, Aunt Carolina!” Junior says happily.

She smiles unconsciously when she hears his voice. Tucker doesn’t know how long it’s been since they last talked to each other; could be a day, could be weeks, but either way it’s hard to tell because they always make it sound like it’s been years.

“Hey, Junior,” Carolina replies affectionately, bringing out her old ‘friendly babysitter’ tone of hers that wigs him out whenever he hears it. “How are you doing? Your dad told me you were a little upset this morning.”

Tucker feels his blood run cold. “Ugh, stop. You sound creepy when you’re trying to be nice. I keep thinking you’re gonna stab someone in the face any minute.”

“Keep talking and I might,” she shoots back.

Junior laughs at them both, long and giddy, filled with the kind of hyperactive excitement you only get from ingesting a bucketful of sugar. “Dad! Dad, hey, guess what?” he says in a singsong voice. In the background, they hear the clatter of something falling to the floor. “We got to go to IHOP for lunch and Mom let me have waffles with chocolate syrup and whipped cream! Oh, and bananas, ‘cause they’re healthy. It was _really_ good!”

He and Carolina make faces at each other. But whatever, _he’s_ not the one who has to deal with the sugar high, so Junior can go buck wild for all he cares. “Sounds great,” Tucker agrees, “I think the banana’s what really makes the meal—”

“So I guess you’re feeling better,” Carolina cuts in, “Glad to hear it. I heard—”

“Don’t make him talk about how upset he was,” Tucker interrupts hastily, “You’re just gonna make him feel bad all over again.” And, okay, it’s not exactly subtle, but who the hell cares? He just wants to wipe that smug look off her face. “It’s not his fault. Junior didn’t mean to _make us late._ ”

Carolina looks unimpressed.

There’s a long pause where none of them know what’s going to happen next. He holds his breath, crossing his fingers that Junior won’t rat him out to Carolina. He doesn’t know they keep getting into these arguments, but he and Carolina only have two modes and there’s no stopping them once they start. At least fucking with each other is better than fighting.

“Umm,” Junior says slowly, “Uh-huh. It was my fault. I was mad ‘cause I couldn’t go, so I locked the bathroom door. That’s why we were late.” He lies expertly, earnestness ringing in his voice, and Tucker so fucking proud of him he can barely stand it. But then Junior ruins it by opening his mouth again. “But Dad said I could stay up late if I came out.”

His son’s a fucking evil genius.

Right, Dad?” Junior says craftily, “You said I could stay up ‘til twelve.”

Tucker twitches. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I said ten.”

“Or, um, eleven?”

“Nope,” he says through gritted teeth, “Definitely said ten thirty.”

Carolina looks like she’s trying not to laugh in his face, which is how he knows he lost this fight. “Sure he didn’t promise you anything else?” she says teasingly, “I think you can get a puppy out of him if you—”

Oh, _hell_ no—he gets enough of that shit from Caboose. “Okay, no, hang up the phone,” Tucker says loudly, “You can’t talk to Carolina if she’s gonna be an asshole. It’s against the rules.” Rule number five to be exact, right after the one that says he gets to ignore any stupid stuff Church tells him to do.

“Okay, I love you, goodbye,” Junior says really fast. He hangs up without waiting for a response, because Junior’s always been pretty good at knowing when to push his luck and when to back away. He must get it from his mom. He sure as hell didn’t get it from his dad.

Afterwards, the two of them stare at each other.

“Congratulations,” Carolina drawls. She shoves her phone back in her pocket and backs away from the fence, finally letting him come inside. “You just got outsmarted by an eight year old.”

“I still beat _you_ ,” Tucker points out.

“You didn’t beat anyone,” she replies, “York took over setup while you while you were lazing around at home. That means _you_ get his turn at clean up.” She smiles broadly at his low groan of misery. “I hope you enjoy knock-knock jokes, because Reggie was supposed to help him today.”

Oh, _fuckberries_.

He doesn’t think this day can get any worse.


	4. The Barbecue (Part 2)

“If I don’t survive this week, I want you to tell my kid I love him,” Tucker says as he flops down in the lounge chair across from North. There’s an unopened bottle of beer dripping condensation on the table that Tucker snags the minute he sees it. It’s cool, though. North never complains about things like that.

North arches a brow.

Tucker takes a couple of sips before replying. “I’ve been here like five seconds and Carolina’s already up my ass about not helping out earlier,” he explains, “And now she’s making me do clean up with Reggie tonight.”

“You have a son who’s still in elementary school,” North reminds him with a smile, “I’m sure you can handle a few bad jokes—odds are you’ve already heard them all before.” He chuckles fondly to himself, like those days are long behind him now that _his_ kid’s gonna be going to junior high.

Whatever.

He won’t be laughing when Tucker gets Theta twenty different joke books for Christmas this year. It’ll probably set off another round of revenge gifting, but he can handle it. He’ll just have to deal when Junior starts playing with the world’s noisiest toys.

“Nah, that’s not what I was talking about,” Tucker replies, “There’s no way that thing with Reggie is the only thing she has planned. Fuck, when I was ten she caught me snooping around in her room and told me that if I was so interested in its contents then I could do an inventory of everything there.”

Literally _everything_ , down to the number of post-its on her desk and the length of the laces in every pair of shoes she owned. It took him two and a half days. By the time she was done with him, he never wanted to step foot in her room again. So yeah, she _definitely_ has something else up her sleeve. Probably something bizarre and inhumane, like teaching old people how to watch porn on the internet.

North grins broadly back at him. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen that side of Carolina before,” he says amusedly, “But I know a thing or two about sisters, so—”

“Okay, no. Carolina is _not_ my sister,” Tucker says adamantly, “She’s just this hot chick that used to babysit me all the time. That’s _all_.”

“I didn’t mean biologically.”

Tucker scowls. “I know what you meant.”

He knows how it looks to everyone else. He knows how everyone thinks he’s so fucking close to her and her brother that they might as well be considered siblings. But everyone is wrong. Yeah, the three of them know things about each other that no one else knows, but for every secret they let him in on there’s ten more they’ll use to shut him out. The Church family will always draw a line between them and the outside world, and Tucker can dance on it all he wants, but he will never be allowed to cross it.

So no, he’s not family and he knows that none of them will ever think of him that way. Which is cool, because if they did then that summer he spent jerking off to that picture of Carolina would be kind of creepy. Plus, he’d be related to The Director, and fuck that shit. He’d rather be a family friend any day of the week.

“Whatever,” Tucker says dismissively. He takes another sip from the bottle just so he doesn’t have to see that stupid concerned look on North’s face. “Anyway, she’s totally gonna do something to me, I know it. It’s gonna suck.”

North makes some kind of noise of agreement, but Tucker’s already ignoring him in favor of looking around the yard to see if anyone he’s actually friends with showed up today. There’s a regular crowd that always shows up, but most people just come whenever they have the time and there’s never any guarantee that you’ll see the same people you did last week.

Today seems like kind of a light day. Carolina and York are there, of course, and he can see Grif and Simmons hanging out by the shed like they usually do. Church is having some kind of argument with Tex over by the ping-pong table, and Donut is having a conversation with—

Tucker chokes on absolutely nothing.

“What the heck is he doing here?” Tucker demands, because Washington is standing by the tree having what looks like an overly enthusiastic conversation on Donut’s side.

North pauses with his own beer halfway to his mouth and follows Tucker’s gaze across the yard to where they’re talking. “Who, Wash?”

“No, the Pillsbury Dough Boy over there,” he says sarcastically, jerking his head in Donut’s direction. “Yeah, _Wash._ Since when does he come to these things, anyway?”

“We only started doing this back in June.”

“Yeah, so?” Tucker says.

“So Wash is a good guy,” North says fondly. He gulps down the last of his drink and places the empty bottle on the table in front of him, then stretches his long legs out across the deck. “He volunteers at the community center every weekend in the summer. He does it every year.”

And now that it’s edging on fall, he finally gets to show up to one of these things.

It makes sense, even if it doesn’t feel like he’s being told the whole story. “Yeah, okay,” Tucker says, nodding slowly, “But what’s he doing hanging out with _Donut_?” He glances back at the sight, but it’s just as bizarre as it was before. “They don’t really seem like they’d have a whole lot in common.”

“More than you’d think,” North says with a smile, “But no, you’re right. Based on what Wash tells me, they’re more friendly than they are friends. Mostly on account of all that time they spent together when he was dating Doc.”

Tucker scoffs. He may not hang out with Donut as much as he does with Grif and Simmons, but he still thinks he would’ve known if those two ever dated. “Uh, I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about that, dude,” he tells North, “They’re just friends. I think they were roommates in college or something.”

North blinks confusedly back at him. “What?” he asks, shaking his head, “No, Wash didn’t go to college. He went straight into the military after graduating from high school.”

“Who’s talking about Wash?” Tucker says in exasperation, “I thought we were talking about Donut!”

They stare at each other in bewilderment, each of them completely baffled by the other. “I think we’re talking at cross-purposes,” North begins calmly after a second or two has passed, “I meant that they got to know each other when Doc was dating Wash, not Donut.”

Even with it flat out stated like that, it still takes awhile for his brain to fire off those synapses and make the link. But when he gets it, his eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Wait, you mean Washington is—no fucking way!” Tucker exclaims in disbelief.

“Oh man, I thought you knew!” North says, “Wash said you were fine with it when he told you before.” And while Tucker is still reeling from the second confusing statement of the day, North stills and his eyes go dark and threatening, colder than he’s ever seen them before. “This won’t be a problem for you, will it?”

It’s times like this that Tucker is forced to remember that no matter how nice North tends to act most of the time, he still works for the kind of place that hires people like Tex and Carolina. “Nope, no problem at all,” he says quickly, throwing his hands up in self-defense.

North relaxes just as suddenly as he tensed up, letting his face go back to the normal look of near-paternal pleasantness that Tucker is used to. It happens so quickly that Tucker struggles to adjust, and all he can think about is the fact that the dude sitting across from him is the same guy that dressed up like the Easter Bunny four years in a row.

“Holy shit,” Tucker blurts out in shock, “Why the hell are you people so scary?”

North shrugs apologetically. “I’m just a little overprotective, that’s all,” he admits, “You can ask anyone—though I suggest you avoid asking my sister unless you’ve got time to sit through the whole rant.” He grins at the memory, eyes flitting off to find her in the yard. “At last count, it was about eight minutes long.”

“Uh-huh,” Tucker says for lack of a better response.

“But the point is,” North finishes seriously, “Wash is like a kid brother to me. And I like you Tucker, I really do, but anyone who wants to mess with him will have to go through me first.”

“Ugh. No one is messing with anybody, okay?” Tucker says defensively. He hops up from his chair, more than ready to end this conversation. “I was just curious about it, that’s all. Don’t get your undies in a bundle.”

“For your sake, Tucker, I sincerely hope so.”

 

* * *

 

It’s hard to get Washington alone after that.

He’s not like the life of the party or anything, but Donut monopolizes his attention for nearly an hour, babbling on and on about what the fuck ever until Wash starts looking around like he wants to escape. Eventually, York takes pity on the guy and cheerfully interrupts their conversation to drag Wash off into an epic ping-pong game against North and his sister.

It looks like it’s going to last for awhile, so Tucker wanders over to where Grif and Simmons are sitting to hang out with them instead. When he finds them, it’s exactly where they’ve been all afternoon: half-hidden in the shade of the shed, far away from anyone who might want to talk to them.

Grif is sprawled out on the lone chair someone (probably Simmons) dragged over, while Simmons sits next to him on top of a stolen cooler and Donut sits gingerly on the ground in front of them, complaining about grass stains when Tucker walks up.

Tucker rolls his eyes at the sight. “Why do you even come to these things? If you wanted to sit on your ass and avoid people, you could’ve just stayed home and saved yourself the gas.”

“Uh, I think you’re forgetting something, Tucker,” Grif says scornfully. He holds a fist up in the air, face warped into an expression of superiority as he ticks his fingers off as he speaks. “One, I can’t get free beer at home. That means this place is already better. Two, all the food here gets made by someone else, which means I don’t have to eat cold hotdogs anymore—”

“It takes _two minutes_ to cook them on the stove,” Simmons interrupts heatedly. He runs his fingers through his hair; a frustrated tic he only brings out when Grif is being _really_ stupid. “That doesn’t even count as cooking! A four year old could do that!”

Grif scoffs. “Yeah, well unless you’re going to buy a four year old to cook for me, I’m going to eat it the way I always do: raw, the way God intended us to eat them.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Simmons says derisively.

“You shouldn’t be eating hotdogs anyway,” Donut insists. He shakes his head reprovingly at Grif, frowning when Grif makes a show of snatching one off Simmons’ plate and taking a huge bite. “I know it’s good when it’s in your mouth, but that doesn’t mean it’s healthy for you!”

Tucker snickers. “Heh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says with a smirk, “I bet Grif’s body is used to having all kinds of meat in his mouth. Right, Simmons?”

Simmons squawks indignantly.

Grif scrambles up out of the lazy sprawl he was in before. “Yeah, well, at least I didn’t spend all afternoon staring at a dude I regularly get sweaty with,” he shoots back.

Donut perks up immediately, rolling up onto his knees to beam up at Tucker, eagerly waiting for him to spill the beans. Which, _no_ , not gonna happen, because if Donut thinks something is up, then everyone else will by the end of the day. Better to head that one off at the pass.

“I wasn’t staring at any guy,” Tucker says quickly, “I was staring at Grif’s sister. She’s been giving me the eye all afternoon. I think she’s still into me.”

“Fuck you,” Grif says with a scowl.

“Wait, what guy are you talking about?” Simmons asks with interest, looking back and forth between the two of them. Simmons likes to think he’s above petty gossip, but he’s always first in line when Donut starts talking about random drama.

Grif gives Tucker one last dirty look for the sister comment, then turns to Simmons and says smugly, “Tucker’s got a boner for that guy who’s been hanging out with Donut all afternoon. It’s his ‘personal trainer.’”

“Seriously, dude?” Tucker says derisively, “ _Finger quotes_?”

Grif grins unrepentantly.

“Are you guys talking about Wash?” Donut asks in delight. He leans back on the palms of his hands, sighing dreamily as he gazes up at the sky. “Ooh, I like him. He’s got that strong and silent thing going for him.”

Tucker frowns.

Wash is a little serious, sure, but silent isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe him. The guy never shuts up about _anything_ , always bitching him out for any little thing he does wrong and constantly accusing him of “not working to the best of his abilities,” whatever the fuck that means. As far as he’s concerned, Washington is about as far from quiet as you can get without being an eight year old boy.

Strong, though. That was accurate.

“North told me you met him when he was dating Doc,” Tucker begins thoughtfully. He leans against the side of the shed, arms crossed but body carefully relaxed. “That’s weird, right? They don’t have anything in common. It’s like if Carolina decided to start dating Grif.”

“Yeah, or if Tucker started dating someone other than his hand!”

“Hey, is that your sister’s new nickname?” Tucker says immediately, “I need to know so I don’t call her the wrong name tonight. You know, when we’re _banging_.”

Grif whirls around in his seat to glare up at Tucker, instinctively grabbing at his beer just as it’s about to get knocked off the arm of the chair. Figures his reflexes would suddenly start working for something like that. “Tucker, I will fucking kill you,” he swears.

“You’d have to get off your ass for that,” Simmons mutters.

“Shut up, Simmons!”

Grif is still fuming about it when Donut finally responds moments later. “It isn’t _that_ weird,” he says, scrunching up his nose, “They get along really well. That’s why they stayed friends even after they broke up!”

Tucker snorts. People who get along really well don’t break up in the first place, not unless something else was going on. “Yeah, sure,” he says dismissively, “So did Wash cheat on him or give him a STD or what?”

“No one cheated,” Donut protests, “Doc said it was mutual.”

Everyone stares at him in disbelief. “Okay, you know that’s bullshit, right?” Tucker says, “There’s no such thing as a mutual breakup. Just one person getting dumped and then pretending they didn’t care so they don’t look like a loser.”

“That’s not true!”

Tucker snorts again and turns to look at Grif and Simmons for backup, but they’re too busy having one of those stupid silent conversations they’re so well known for. Eventually Simmons grimaces and looks away, and then Grif shakes his head and says grimly, “No, I’m with Tucker on this one. It’s complete bullshit.”

Donut doesn’t bat an eye at that particular weirdness, but gives them the sternest look he’s capable of and says firmly, “It’s not _bull_. I mean, sure they broke up, but they had a really great relationship and they still talk to each other all the time! They’re _friends_.”

“They’re not friends,” Simmons says darkly, “They’ll _never_ be friends. They’ll be in love ‘til it kills them both—”

“Are you quoting one of your nerdy shows again?”

Simmons jumps up off his seat due to sheer outrage. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a critically acclaimed tv show watched by millions of viewers over the span of seven seasons!” he bursts out heatedly, “It made Time magazine’s list of the top 100 television shows of all time!”

“Like I said,” Grif says smugly, “Nerd stuff.”

Tucker ignores them both. “Okay, so if things were so perfect, then why’d they want out?”

“Well,” Donut begins hesitantly. He says nothing for a few more seconds, suddenly uneasy with the topic at hand. “Doc always said Wash was really attentive to his needs. Not in a sexy way!” he says when they groan in unison. “But he was always doing things for him, like bringing him lunch at work and stuff. It was sweet.”

“Uh, whipped much?” Grif responds.

Simmons makes a noise of agreement, but Tucker’s not so sure. I mean, _yeah_ , it’s not the way he would do things, but that kind of thing works for York and Carolina and they’re about as tight as you can get.

“And, I don’t know, I guess Doc didn’t like it when everything went right all the time,” Donut continues. “He said relationships weren’t supposed to be like that and that if you’re so worried about everything being right it meant you weren’t being honest with each other.”

They pause to let that information sink in.

“Wow,” Grif says cynically, “We actually found someone so boring that even Doc didn’t want to be around him. I hope he’s proud of his accomplishment.” He and Tucker stare incredulously at each other, eyes wide open in disbelief.

Donut pouts dramatically, an expression half put-on for show and half filled with earnest distress. “I keep telling you guys,” he whines, “It’s not like that at _all_. Wash is actually a really nice guy. He’s the only one who tried my cocktails all afternoon!”

He sighs glumly and draws his knees up, arms hugging them to his chest as his pout shifts into something way more petulant. He looks about Junior’s age when he does that. It lets him get away with all kinds of things at work, because Sarge would rather deal with Grif than try to handle Donut when he’s pouting.

“I guess it’s okay, though,” Donut begins sadly, “I bet the others didn’t mean to avoid my drinks. Maybe Wash is just the only other one around here who likes his things a little bit fruity.”

Awkward silence takes over their side of the yard.

“Uh, I think I’ll go see what Church and Caboose are up to,” Tucker says hastily. He pushes off of the shed and gives Donut a thumbs up as he sidles around Grif’s chair. “Cool talk. Can’t wait to have another one.”

If anyone responds, Tucker doesn’t hear it, because he spots something out of the corner of his eye that has him jogging over to the food table.

“You never said you and Doc dated,” Tucker says accusingly.

Wash calmly puts his plate down, but he doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he makes Tucker watch as he lifts a kebab up to his mouth, white teeth flashing as they slide a piece of meat off the stick. “I didn’t think the information was relevant to our working relationship,” Wash says as soon as he’s done chewing. “For that matter, I had no idea the two of you even knew each other.”

Tucker rolls his eyes impatiently. “Yeah, of course we do,” he says, “He was my kid’s speech therapist for like four years. Plus, he’s always hanging out with Donut.”

Washington nearly drops the rest of the kebab. He fumbles with the stick at first, fingers gone limp with surprise, but manages to put it on the plate without ever looking away from Tucker’s face. “Wait,” he blurts out, “ _You_ have a kid?”

He’s gaping openly, eyebrows flying up in total astonishment, which is so fucking insulting that Tucker wants to punch him in the face. “Yeah,” Tucker says, glaring defiantly, “You got a problem with that?”

“No,” Washington says quickly, “I was just surprised to hear it, that’s all. No one mentioned you had a child.” He shifts awkwardly on his feet even when Tucker nods to let him off the hook, body language taking on a hint of uncertainty as he refuses to look at Tucker head on. “Why? Do you have a problem with the fact that I’m bisexual?”

“What?” Tucker says blankly.

Washington is too self-composed to fidget, but the stiffness in his back says everything anyone needs to know. “I forgot that you didn’t know,” he continues stiltedly, “And North mentioned that you acted oddly when you found out. I just want to make sure there are no problems between us.”

Tucker bites his tongue to keep all the things he wants to say inside. (“Bi? Seriously, but you’re a _guy_!” and “I’m straight, totally straight. All about the ladies. I know you’re gonna wanna hit this, but I’m not interested.”) He bites his tongue and doesn’t let any of that out, because Washington is holding himself like he’s made of glass and Tucker could shatter him with a single word.

Junior looks that way every time he meets a stranger. Like he’s constantly bracing himself for a blow. Like every mocking sentence or nasty word he hears is another splinter digging into his skin, a tiny wound that no amount of kind words can heal. Tucker’s seen that look in Junior’s eyes so many times, and he refuses to put it in anyone else’s.

Besides, it’s none of his business.

“Psshh, you’re not the first person I met who swings both ways,” Tucker says airily, "Like, fuck, dude, have you met Grif’s sister? She once got caught screwing the mayor and actually convinced his wife to join the party. She’s pretty wild.”

Tucker knows he’s rambling, but it seems to work; that wary look drains from Wash’s face at the sudden change of subject, and for the first couple of seconds he doesn’t do anything but stare at the ground in bewilderment. “I—the mayor? Really?”

“Yeah, it was her second one,” Tucker explains, “I think she’s gonna go for a third in a couple of years and get the full package.” He smirks when he realizes what he just said. “Heh. Full package. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Washington rolls his eyes.

He looks better when he’s annoyed. Less vulnerable, more like himself. It’s good to see, but if he’s going to do that every time Tucker decides to make a joke, his face is totally gonna stick that way for good. See how many chicks—or dudes, whatever—he gets with only his body to grab their attention. No one’s gonna look twice at him then.

…oh fuck, who is he kidding?

“A few months back we had a temp worker at the front desk named Grif,” Wash says suddenly. He tilts his head in consideration, mind working hard as he searches through his memories. “South recommended her for the job. It’s possible that’s who you’re talking about.”

“Yeah?” Tucker asks, vaguely surprised. He wouldn’t have expected to see her at their job. “Hawaiian chick with a _banging_ body who wears a fuckton of yellow?”

Washington nods reluctantly.

“Did she invite you to a house party?” Tucker continues. He tries to picture Wash at one of the parties Kai likes to go to, and the thought is so funny he holds onto it for later—and then promptly thinks of something twice as good. “Ooh, did she tell you one of her stories?”

“Yes. She did.” Wash says flatly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. He scowls at some memory he isn’t sharing, which is a pretty standard reaction when it comes to people she doesn’t get along with. “We’re definitely talking about the same person.”

He wishes he could’ve been a fly on the wall for that conversation. Just the thought of seeing a guy like Wash go up against someone as outrageous as Kai…man, if he could’ve seen it, it would’ve totally made up for all the torture Wash put him through during the week.

“Heh. Sounds like you two had fun.”

“We certainly did,” Washington says with a tight smile, “I especially enjoyed hearing all about what she learned during her time in the circus. It’s such a shame the Director called me away before I got to hear the end.”

Oh, screw him. Washington doesn’t know what he’s missing out on—that story about the sword-swallower that taught her to give head is a _classic_. He opens his mouth to tell Wash so when he sees something that has him swearing out loud.

“Oh, _fuck no_!”

Washington startles at the sudden burst of panic in his voice, instinctively moving to stand in front of Tucker with fists that are already clenched. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he demands as he looks around, “Why do you sound so…”

His voice trails off as he spots what has Tucker so freaked out. “Oh,” Wash says in a voice high with tension. He backpedals away from the sight, taking one step after the other until he bumps into Tucker’s chest and has to stop. “Oh, that isn’t going to go well at all.”

“You’re telling me,” Tucker mutters. He inches over until Washington is no longer blocking his view and the two of them stare at the sight in utter dismay. “I thought me and Caboose got rid of that thing years ago.”

“Apparently you didn’t do a very good job.”

He’d frown if Wash wasn’t completely right about it, because the net that Carolina is putting up in the middle of the yard is the same old raggedy thing that got volleyball banned from the beach three years ago.

There’s no such thing as friendly competition when Tex and Carolina are involved.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad this time,” Wash says hesitantly. They watch silently as Tex bounces a ball off her forearms, effortlessly getting the same height every time in a perfect display of skill and control. In high school, Carolina’s team made it to the finals before they lost.

“Yeah, and maybe they’ll strip all their clothes off and start singing Kumbaya as they dance around the grill,” Tucker replies sarcastically, “Maybe they’ll start making out with me. Hey, maybe they’ll start making out with each other.”

Wash grimaces. “You can stop now. I get the point.”

“No, no, it’s cool,” Tucker continues, “Let’s keep talking about awesome fucking stuff that’s never going to happen. Hey, I hear it’s gonna rain pizza next week. Do you think that’s gonna mess up traffic?”

Washington lets a little bit of flint in his eyes. “If it does, you could always run to work instead,” he says sweetly. “Tell you what—next time we meet I’ll start training you for it just in case. How does doing two miles in fifteen minutes sound to you?”

“Sounds like you’re a real barrel of laughs,” Tucker says acerbically. He rocks back on the balls of his feet and contemplates the odds of Washington actually following through on that threat. “I can’t figure out why none of your friends tried harder to get you to come over. Seriously, it’s a mystery.”

“If this is the kind of witty banter I was missing out on, I’m glad I never came,” Washington retorts, which is bullshit, because Tucker knows he’s hilarious. Junior tells him so all the time. Wash just doesn’t have a sense of humor, that’s all. “In fact, now that I think about it—”

“Oh _shit_ ,” Tucker exclaims. His hands scramble frantically against Washington’s back, already pushing and tugging him toward the back door before his brain lets him in on the plan. “Start walking, don’t make eye contact.”

“Tucker, what are you—”

“Nope, shut up, keep walking,” Tucker responds, shoving harder when Wash tries to get him to stop. There’s no time to explain or double check to make sure; he knew the moment he spotted York halfheartedly moving to stand with Carolina that he and Wash only had seconds to escape.

“Tucker—”

“Dude, I think they’re picking _teams_ ,” Tucker says desperately. There’s a barely contained note of horror in his voice that isn’t exaggerated at all, and it’s either that or Wash’s own experiences that finally gets him to stop protesting.

Quick as a whip, Washington twists in his arms, and then suddenly Tucker’s the one being manhandled, pulled along inside the house by a firm grip around his wrist. They don’t stop walking until they’re safely in the hall, and only then does Wash come to a stop and turn around to face Tucker again.

Tucker’s head shoots up a second too late.

Frowning, Wash glances down to see what caught Tucker’s attention. He doesn’t react immediately, only blinks rapidly at the sight of their hands, studying them like they’re something alien to him. It’s not until Tucker wiggles his fingers that Wash jolts and drops his wrist like it’s made of fire.

Wash’s mouth opens and closes on what must be a thousand different sentences, but none of them manage to leave his mouth until he straightens his back and says, “York told me we were allowed to use the basement while we’re here, but I’ve never been here before, so you’ll have to tell me where it is.”

If Wash wants to play it that way, then Tucker’s more than happy to go along with it. “Yeah, come on, follow me,” Tucker says, jerking his head in the right direction. “It’s pretty cool. They’ve got a bar and a pool table and everything down there. We can steal the good stuff if we want.”

“Right,” Wash says automatically, then he realizes what he said and rushes to correct himself. “Wait, no, we’re not stealing anything. We’re just going to stay down there until everyone’s forgotten about the game.”

David “Buzzkill” Washington reporting for duty, right on fucking schedule.

“Fine,” Tucker lies, “No one’s going near the Director’s alcohol.” Even though he’s done it before. It was freshmen year of high school and he drank so much he wound up vomiting all over the Director’s brand new leather couch. Totally worth it. “So anyway are we gonna go, or what? I know you’re busy jerking off to all the ways you’re gonna ruin my fun, but I’m getting bored just standing around.”

Washington twitches and exhales slowly, then heaves the weariest sigh that Tucker’s ever heard. It’s completely out of place and over the top, coming deep from within his chest like he’s barely holding on to control. What a drama queen.

“Can you just…” Washington pauses, struggling to finish his sentence. “Lead the way? Preferably without talking anymore. I think that would be for the best.”

Tucker thinks about kicking him down the stairs. No one’s around, so he could probably pass it off as an accident, and if he pays Tex he won’t have to worry about hiding a body. “You know,” he says slowly, “When you say things like that you sound like Carolina.”

“Oh?” Washington says, drawing himself up to his full height. He looks puzzled at the comment, but vaguely pleased, flattered at the comparison between the two of them. “Really? What makes you say that?”

“Well for one thing, both of you are _assholes_.”

That sets off a chain reaction that has them trading insults for the next half hour. Eventually they forget why they came down there in the first place, too caught up in the conversation to remember that it was only supposed to be temporary.

They play billiards, which Tucker loses, and then Wash completely destroys him when it comes to darts even though it’s gotta be cheating to use his freaky special ops training to win at games. Wash smirks when Tucker demands a rematch and suggests that something less skill based might be more his speed.

And fuck it, Wash is totally right, so Tucker challenges him to a game of Uno and spends the next four minutes kicking his ass. After Uno they play poker, and after that it’s blackjack, and somewhere along the way they wind up anteing up with embarrassing stories instead of money.

When the two of them finally look up from their cards, they’re stunned to see that the basement has somehow filled with people without them realizing. “Fuck, dude,” Tucker says hoarsely, “How long have we been down here?”

He looks blindly around the room, feeling off-balance and vaguely stunned, like the whole world has been going on without them and he only just realized they were left behind. One look at Washington makes it obvious he feels the exact same way.

“I don’t know,” Washington says unevenly. Their cards drop to their laps from limp fingers, but only Wash bothers to pick his up, hands moving clumsily to collect them and place them with the ones already discarded. “Not that long or everyone would’ve left.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says. People usually start leaving around eight or nine. He thinks they came down here around four-thirty or five, which means they could’ve been down here anywhere from an hour to four. He could check his phone, but he’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.

“I wonder why nobody interrupted us,” Washington muses thoughtfully. He hesitates before he reaches out, but still plucks the cards from Tucker’s lap and shoves them back into the box with the others. “That’s not like them—any of them.”

He’s got a point. The ones who are dicks take pleasure in messing things up for people, and the ones who are nice are curious on a bad day and annoyingly nosy anytime else. If no one came around to bug them, it’s only because something else was going on.

Tucker thinks about it for a moment and shrugs. “Maybe the volleyball match lasted longer than we thought?” he suggests. Knowing Tex and Carolina, it could’ve gone for three or four hours. “Or maybe it’s not as late as we thought—”

The sound of his stomach growling cuts in audibly, too loud for either of them to ignore.

Washington gives a little frown of displeasure. “When was the last time you had something to eat?” he asks in concern. “I stayed near the grill for a couple of hours, but I never saw you grab anything after you showed up.”

Now that he mentions it, Tucker’s pretty sure he hasn’t eaten since they stopped off at Dunkin Donuts this morning. “Ugh, yeah, I totally need a burger or something,” Tucker replies, “And something to drink. I haven’t eaten since eight this morning.”

He eyes Wash in consideration, then reaches out a leg to nudge him in the thigh. “Go get me something?” he says hopefully, “I gotta stay here and guard our seats.”

“I don’t think that job’s as necessary as you make it sound,” Washington says drily. But he gets up anyway despite the complaining, stretching his arms high above his head with a groan until a sliver of skin shows between his shirt and belt. “Though I guess I can get you something on my way back from the bathroom.”

“A cheeseburger,” Tucker insists immediately, “And a hotdog with relish and mustard. Oh, and a beer too. No, wait— _two_ beers. You know what, fuck it, bring a whole case.”

The fondness on Washington’s face is a far cry from the exasperated expression he usually has when they are talking to each other. “You want me to bring you a whole case of beer,” he repeats amusedly. He waits for Tucker’s nod to come before backing away with a teasing look. “Maybe I’ll get you water instead.”

Tucker scowls. “That’s not funny.”

“Who says I’m joking?” Wash replies with a smirk, then turns and walks away without a response, leaving Tucker sputtering in his wake.

“ _Asshole._ ”

A hand comes out of nowhere to clap him on the back. “Does that mean your date isn’t going so well?”Church asks mockingly, coming out of nowhere to shove past Tucker and throw himself into the spot Wash just vacated. “That’s a shame, Tucker. He seemed really into you. I think he would’ve let you get to second base—maybe even third.”

“Dude, shut up,” Tucker replies irritably, “You know it’s not like that.”

“Hey, I don’t know anything—”

“That’s for fucking sure.”

“—but Carolina says she saw you two run down here hours ago, and why else would someone be willing to hang around you for that long?” Church continues without missing a beat, “’Cause let me tell you something, Tucker: I’ve talked to you before. You’re not that interesting. So the way I see it, the only possible explanation is that Washington has a thing for you.”

“Fuck you,” Tucker says, “It’s called having a conversation. Maybe more people would have one with you if you weren’t such an dick all the time.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“And anyway, it’s not like I’m gonna waste all my awesomeness on you, okay?” Tucker points out. He grins obnoxiously and kicks his feet up on the sofa. “I’ve got to spread it around. Make sure everyone gets a taste of—”

Church looks like he’s been given a gift.

“Wait, no,” Tucker stammers out, “No no no, that’s not what I meant.”

Church bites down hard on his lip, not even bothering to hide his pleasure. “No, you go right ahead, Tucker,” he drawls out smugly, “Why don’t you finish telling me how much you want Wash to get a taste of you?”

 _Fuck_.

He’s feeling really good about his decision to tell Wash all those stories about Church during that game of poker. He hopes Washington tells everyone he knows all about it. It would serve Church right. “Seriously,” Tucker grumbles, “Shut up. We were just hanging out down here so we wouldn’t get in the middle of another fight. That’s all, so stop talking about it already.”

It’s not fair.

He was actually having fun before Church showed up, and now he won’t be able to finish his conversation without wondering how it looks to everybody else. And that _sucks_ , it really does, because Wash may act like the most boring person on the planet, but he’s really just this baffling mix of tough and dorky that occasionally makes him fun to be around.

He’s ridiculous in the weirdest of ways. He’s a hardened ex-soldier who likes cocktails and drinking out of silly straws. He bitches about people who don’t follow protocol and goes on long rants about terrible guns and secretly suspects that all cars hate him. And yeah, he can be a little stiff sometimes, but his sense of humor is dry as bone and he’s the worst winner that Tucker’s ever met.

And now that Tucker feels weird about talking to him, he’s gonna have to come up with a reason for them to stop hanging out, which means he’s probably never gonna get to hear the rest of that grappling hook story. Church ruins _everything_.

“I hate you,” Tucker mutters, “So fucking much, you have no idea.” He hates him the way Junior despises getting up in the morning, the way Caboose hates it when everyone’s arguing, the way Tex hates it when she runs out of money and starts getting that itchy feeling in her veins.

Church tsks and shakes his head. “Hey, if you keep that up you’ll make me reconsider being your wingman,” he admonishes, “And then you’ll never get him to take you to the prom. You’re gonna have to stay home watching old episodes of Duck Tales like you did last time.”

“I’m straight,” Tucker reminds him insistently, “I don’t need a wingman. Wait, no, I mean I don’t need a wingman with Wash. It’s totally cool if you wanna hook me up with one of those fine soldier chicks from work I haven’t met yet.”

Church snorts. “Not a chance. Every one of them is out of your league.”

“Oh, sure, _they’re_ out of my league,” Tucker grumbles, “But apparently Washington is—” Shit, right fucking there, apparently, already walking down the stairs. “Okay, new plan: you go mess with somebody else and I won’t tell Carolina you let Junior take the fall for breaking her window.”

“Oh, don’t you _dare_ , Tucker,” Church warns angrily, “I already paid him for that!”

Tucker leans back in his seat and feels a burst of satisfaction run through him at the look of worry in Church’s eyes. “Hey, he’s the one who promised not to rat you out,” he points out, “I never said I wouldn’t talk.”

Church squints at him with barely contained rage. “If you tell her about the window, I’m going to tell her about the car,” he threatens, “And then I’m gonna tell her what you and Mikaela Lewis did in her bed when she was away at school.”

“That was ten years ago,” Tucker yells just as Washington makes it to the edge of the couch. “You can’t bring that up now! There’s a statue of limitations on that bullshit.”

“It’s statute, actually,” Wash corrects mildly.

Tucker nearly jumps out of his skin. “Holy shit, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” he gasps out. He doesn’t know why; it’s not like he didn’t see Wash coming, but somehow the sound of his voice was still enough to leave his heart racing.

Washington shrugs apologetically as he hands over the plate of food he was carrying, seemingly oblivious to the daggers Church is shooting Tucker’s way. “Nice job guarding our seats,” he says wryly, “I can tell you really gave it your all.”

He waves that off like the non-issue it totally is. “Nah, there’s plenty of room on the couch,” Tucker tells him, “Especially since Church _has something else to do_.” He punctuates that incredibly subtle reminder with a glare, just in case Church decides to stall for time.

“Right,” Wash says skeptically.

“No way, Tucker,” Church replies immediately. He grins and reaches over to pluck a can of beer from the plastic ring in Wash’s hand. “Why would I leave when he just got here? And after he was nice enough to bring us drinks.”

“I hate you so much,” Tucker says again.

But Church must be in a really good mood or something, because there’s honest amusement on his face when he looks back and forth between them. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna ruin the mood by being here,” he says mockingly, “Your chances with him are as good as they always were.”

It’s not apparent which of them Church is talking to, but Washington clearly thinks it’s aimed at him. Just like that, his eyes narrow and take on a hard edge that signals he’s ready for a fight. “It’s good to see you here today,” Wash says pleasantly, “I didn’t think you’d be able to make it after what happened at work.

Church scowls.

“What happened at work?” Tucker asks automatically. He perks up at the new information, eager at the possibility of getting a little of his own back. “Was it embarrassing?” He turns to Wash and bounces gleefully in his seat. “Please tell me it was embarrassing.”

“Nothing happened at work,” Church says adamantly. He glares at Washington and then back at Tucker, crossing his arms in silent warning to keep their mouths shut. “And I wouldn’t start talking about embarrassing stuff if I were you, Tucker, because we both know I’ve got way more on you than you have on me.”

“Oooh, I’m so scared,” Tucker scoffs.

He regrets saying it the moment it escapes his tongue, because Church gets this annoyingly evil look on his face that spells nothing but trouble for Tucker’s pride. He holds his breath and waits for the blow to fall.

Church smirks at him from across the couch. “You sure about that?” he asks calmly, “Because I could always tell Washington about that time with the fountain—”

“Oh please, I’m proud of that.”

“Or that time you and the school mascot were caught dry humping in a closet in the middle of the championship game—”

“What? That was _awesome_.”

“She was still in her costume!” Church exclaims. Washington makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, but they both ignore him. “You were gonna fuck someone dressed like a dolphin. What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Tucker responds, “I was fifteen years old and she was offering to touch my dick. What, you thought I was gonna say no?”

“A _dolphin._ ”

“My _dick_ ,” Tucker repeats in the exact same voice.

Church holds a finger in the air, trying hard to come up with a response, but nothing comes to mind after a full minute of trying. Slowly, he lowers his hand and stares at Tucker, dumbfounded but vaguely impressed. “I don’t know how, but you keep on surprising me with the lengths you’ll go to in order to get laid.”

“It’s like a superpower,” Tucker says smugly.

Washington clears his throat and drags their attention back to him. “Well, this has been an illuminating if mildly disturbing conversation,” he says, “But I think I’d like to talk about anything else now.”

Church tilts his head up and makes a small noise of agreement. “You realize this is the guy you’ve been hanging out with for hours, right?” he tells Washington, instinctively dodging the kick Tucker sends his way. “Because I’ve seen the kind of people who hit on you, and I’m just saying I think you can do better.”

“Hey, if I rolled that way, I’d rock his world,” Tucker says confidently. He may not be great when it comes to dates, but he’s definitely an expert where it really counts. “Seriously, dude, I am _awesome_ in bed. I’d totally ruin him for other people.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure.”

“No, for real,” Tucker protests, “Why would I lie about that?”

And whether Church believes it or not, it’s actually true. Unlike a lot of other guys, Tucker actually _likes_ constructive criticism. The sex is way better when everyone’s having fun and if you mess up you get to keep practicing until you get it right. Women love that. “Hey Wash, back me up here.”

Washington looks at him strangely. “Why would I know if you’re good in bed?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker says defensively. He shrugs when they continue to stare at him. “You’re bi, right? Don’t you guys have radar for that kind of thing?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Church facepalm, but Washington just squints at him incredulously, jaw falling open in shock. “Did you honestly just…” His eyes close tight like he’s trying to gather strength before finishing his sentence. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Wait, you mean you _don’t_ have radar?”

Church pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear to god, Tucker, I am going to beat you to death with this can of beer,” he snaps out furiously, “What the hell is _wrong_ with you? Are you really that goddamn stupid?”

“I’m not stupid! Kai told me she could. She said her breasts tingle when she sees someone who knows how to fuck.” And when it’s about to rain, but that’s not as important right now. “I figured Wash might be able to feel it in his balls.”

They stare at him in complete and utter disbelief.

Tucker’s cheeks are burning with shame for the first time in years. “Okay, I realize how dumb that sounds when you say it out loud,” he admits as he ducks his head, “But in my defense, Kai says it works all the time, so I thought it had to be for a reason.”

“And you thought that reason was her _sexuality_?”

Tucker shifts guiltily in his seat and avoids looking in Washington’s direction. “Uh, kinda?” he says, wincing a little. He shoots a pleading look Church’s way, but only gets an exasperated shake of the head in return. It looks like he’s on his own for now.

Washington heaves that long-suffering sigh from before. His fingers come up to rub his temples, but he seems more weary than offended or upset. “Yesterday,” he begins slowly, “Church got stabbed in the ass with a pair of scissors.”

They ignore Church’s squawk of displeasure.

“Okay,” Tucker says warily. He waits for Washington to finish, but nothing comes, which is coincidentally around the time his mind starts racing frantically in preparation for a trap. “Uh, that’s funny and all, but what’s your point?”

“My _point,_ ” Washington informs him, “Is that I got to watch a grown man beg for piggyback rides all day long, but you still managed to be the most ridiculous person I’ve seen all week.”

Church snorts in agreement. “Didn't I say you could do better?”

In the span of a couple of hours, he managed to annoy Carolina, get conned by Junior, accidentally make North threaten to kick his ass, and somehow imply that bisexuals are psychic. Oh, and he still hasn’t eaten all day. Tucker hates to admit it, but just this once they might have a point.

“I told you,” he says glumly, “It’s like a fucking superpower.”


	5. One Step Back, Two Steps Forward

It takes less than thirty minutes in each other’s company to wipe away the residual affection from the barbecue.

In their defense, it was off to a bad start before they even laid eyes on each other. After a long day involving a five hour trip to the hospital, two hours of paperwork, and a twenty minute lecture that only narrowly resulted in him keeping his job, Washington was already in the worst mood he could possibly be in—

“You’re late,” Washington snaps.

—a mood that was further exacerbated when he had to wait ten minutes for Tucker to show up.

Tucker waves his hand in the air dismissively. “Pssh, don’t worry about it,” he replies, “I stopped off at the bakery before I came so we’d have something to eat after we’re done burning calories. Hey, did you know they make bacon donuts? Sounds gross, but I got us some."

He throws the bag across the room at Washington, who catches it and throws it on a nearby bench. “You’re late,” he repeats coldly, “Go get dressed so we can get to work. I don’t want you wasting any more of our time.”

Tucker halts halfway across the room at the tone, wavering there as if he isn't sure whether to back away or move closer. “Dude, what’s your problem?” he asks defensively. Hurt flashes in his eyes, but is quickly hidden away from sight. Wash can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

“You have three minutes to get dressed before I come in after you.”

“What are you—”

“Timer starts now.”

Tucker reels back like he's been slapped. “Fine!” he snarls angrily, “Whatever. Don’t eat my donuts when I’m gone, asshole. I’m gonna have those for breakfast.”

Washington rolls his eyes.

According to the clock on the wall, Tucker comes stomping back into the room exactly three minutes and five seconds later, a time so suspiciously close to what Washington gave that he almost suspects Tucker of doing it on purpose.

“Let’s get this over with already. I wanna go hang out with people I actually like.”

Fifteen minutes later, that sulky look he was wearing has been brutally wiped off his face.

“I fucking hate you,” Tucker spits out. His arms are shaking from the strain of holding them in position, but his form holds strong and true—better, truthfully, than a good quarter of Washington’s current batch of trainees, though based on what he witnessed today that no longer seems like a difficult feat.

“No, really,” Tucker continues. He stops long enough to catch his breath, but continues before Wash can tell him to keep going. “I’m gonna go to the bank and empty out Junior’s college savings just so I can pay Tex to kick your ass.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that when he grows up,” Washington says sarcastically, earning himself an exhausted glare. He rubs his temples, feeling more than a little tired himself. “Now stop talking. I’m not here to listen to you whine.”

“Nah, you’re ju—“

“I don’t care,” Washington cuts in, “Just switch sides.”

Tucker does so with a grateful moan, taking just a moment to rest on his forearms before he rolls into position on the opposite side. Under Wash’s careful gaze, he extends his arm and leg and bends both of them toward his chest, movements more wobbly and sluggish than before.

“I can’t— _fuck_ , this _sucks_ ,” Tucker gasps suddenly. His arms buckle and threaten to give out on him, but Tucker grits his teeth and presses on, head bowed but still determined. Only seven more to go. “I can’t believe people pay you for this. How stupid are they?”

“ _You_ pay me for this,” Wash reminds him.

Four more to go.

“Shut up,” Tucker pants. He completes the last few crunches with pained grunt and then promptly throws himself on the floor before rolling onto his back to scowl up at Wash. “I hate you so fucking much right now, you have no idea.”

Washington lets some of his long-boiling annoyance at the constant griping ring loud and clear in his voice. “Hmm,” he says with a tight smile, “Sounds like someone wants to do another set.”

“Get. _Fucked_.”

“Are you offering?“ Wash asks sardonically, “Because if you are, I’ll have to turn you down.” He opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go in the clearest possible display of mockery he’s capable of. “You see, I already used my super special psychic powers and discovered it wouldn’t be worth it.”

The insult to his sexual capabilities is apparently more than Tucker can take, because his indignation causes him to forget his usual routine of pretending he’s too exhausted to move.  “Hey, I’m like a sex god!” he protests as he flings himself up into a sitting position, “I practically need a secretary to schedule all the booty calls I get!”

“Is that so?” Washington deadpans.

“Hell yeah it is!” Tucker brags, “Everyone knows how good I am.” He tilts his head back and grins in a way that can only be described as shit-eating. “In high school they unofficially voted me most likely to wind up in porn.”

“I’m sure your parents were very proud.”

Tucker shoots him another dark look, but keeps his tone glib. “Mom always said I’d be a star. Besides, me and some guys streaked during our junior prom, so I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be a compliment.”

Washington doesn’t follow—and then he does, and his fingers come up to rub against his temples again as he desperately tries to look anywhere but down.

“I mean ‘cause of my junk.”

“Yes, thank you. I got that.” Wash replies, all the while staring hard up at the ceiling."I'd really like to go back to arguing now." Or really, doing anything that doesn't result in Washington thinking about things he doesn't want to. It's like Kaikaina all over again.

"Hey, you were the one who asked in the first place—"

"That's not even remotely true."

"So I don't know why you're acting like you've never seen a dick  before. I mean, heh, you've probably seen a couple of dicks, am I right? Because you're—"

Wash clenches his jaw. “By all means, continue that sentence.”

Tucker goes quiet and doesn’t continue, but it’s so unlike him to suddenly develop either common sense or something resembling a filter that it immediately clues him in that something is wrong. Washington takes a chance and lets his gaze slide downward, only to see…

Oh.

Only to see that at some point during their conversation, Tucker’s gaze drifted downward. "It’s nothing you need to worry about," Washington says before Tucker can ask, “We had a mishap at work today, that’s all.”

"A mishap with blood?" Tucker says doubtfully. He stretches out as far as he can without moving, balancing with a palm on the floor so that he can poke at the dark stain on Washington's calf without tilting over. "I thought Church said you guys didn't kill anyone at the office."

"We work in security," Wash points out, "If we're doing our job, no one gets killed at all."

It's a lot less exciting than people tend to think. Even when he was actively working as a bodyguard, the job mostly consisted of crowd control and calling places ahead of time to figure out the best way to enter without gaining too much attention. The worst he ever had to deal with was a few reporters who thought hassling people when they were picking their kids up from school was the best time to ask about rumors of corporate espionage.

It wasn't the worst job he ever had, but there's a reason he became an instructor instead. He can see why some people would get the wrong idea, though. Maybe that’s why he chooses to continue to explain even though there’s no reason for him to do so.

“We had a accident today. One of my trainees made a careless mistake with a firearm that could have gotten someone killed." The kind of mistake a rookie would know better than to make, which means a ten year veteran of the BGPD has no excuse. "As a result, someone got shot."

“Is that why you were acting so bitchy earlier?”

And just like that, the familiar frission of annoyance returns.

"I wasn't acting bitchy," Wash starts to say, but Tucker is already leaning back and giving him a satisfied nod as if that explains everything about his behavior. "And if I was, it would be because you came waltzing in here ten minutes late, resulting in us wasting a full fourth of the time you have allotted!” His voice is getting shrill again, but he can’t help it. “And now you're doing it again! Start stretching!"

Tucker scowls, but does what he says without a fight—though not without comment. "Are you sure that guy wasn't aiming for you?" he says, sounding a little bitchy himself, "Because that I could understand."

"Just get to work," Washington snaps.

 

* * *

 

"I thought you said you weren't upset about what he said at the barbecue," York says with a curious tilt to his head. He shamelessly steals a handful of fries, mopping them through a smear of ketchup on his plate before shoving them all of them into his mouth at once.

"You have your own," Wash reminds him.

He gets another couple of fries stolen from his plate. "Yours taste better,” he replies, “They always do. I think the cook here hates me, because every time we come here something of mine gets burned."

Washington smirks. "Must be your winning personality."

York reaches over and steals the rest of his milkshake too.

Wash doesn’t fight him on it, only picks up a fry of his own, idly dragging it through the ketchup without any real interest in eating it. "I'm not mad at him,” he says in all honesty, "Not about that." He never was, not even at the time. It would be like getting angry over someone saying the world is flat. Sure it's ignorant, but in such a mind-bogglingly stupid way that it passes awful and approaches funny instead.

"Then why were you giving him such a hard time?"

Washington shrugs and stabs at his leftovers. He contemplates giving them to York without a fuss, but he knows that would ruin the thing they have going on. Better to let York steal his food than to let him know that Wash doesn’t feel like eating at all.

A flicker of concern flashes through York’s one good eye. "Is this about what the Director said yesterday?” he asks in a low, sober voice, “Because he was wrong and everyone knows it. A group as experienced as yours shouldn't be making those kinds of mistakes."

York is only saying that to try to make him feel better and they both know it. It doesn't matter how experienced they are, it's still his job to make sure nothing like that happens. The Director didn't lie about that.

"I know they shouldn’t,” Washington says, carefully wrapping his statement in the truth. “And that’s not what was going on. I wasn’t giving Tucker a hard time. He was late. If anything, I was going easy on him.”

York doesn’t look convinced or distracted or anything Washington wishes he was. But he puts a grin on his face and pretends he is anyway. "Oh, come on, Wash,” he says jokingly, “He bought you donuts and you threw them aside like they were nothing. I hear in some places that's a killing offense."

Washington snorts. "I guess I'll have to take your word on it."

“Glad to hear all the trust hasn’t gone out of our relationship yet.”

He feels his lips quirk up in amusement. The brief silence that follows is comfortable in a way that most people wouldn’t think York capable of. Then again, York has always been more serious and empathetic than anyone gives him credit for. Of all his friends, he’s the one Wash goes to the most.

For that alone, Washington slides over the rest of his food.

York nods his thanks at the gift but doesn’t reach for the plate, barely acknowledging that Washington exists at all as he stares out the window to his left. The suddenness of it is stranger than anything else, even more strange than the depth of York’s preoccupation.

It’s the only warning he has for what York’s about to say next.

“He’s not so bad, you know.”

He frowns in confusion at the non sequitur. "Who?"

York turns back and gives him a look of pure exasperation. “What do you mean who?” he asks, staring at Washington in disbelief, “Tucker, who else?”

Washington's brows join his lips in showing his uncertainty, furrowing as he tries to figure out what this has to do with York's strange mood. He doubts it's anything as simple as wanting them to have a good working relationship. "Alright," he says slowly, "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"Just trust me on this, okay?” York says, leaning in as if it’s important. His voice takes on a pleading tone completely at odds with the situation. “He’s a little quirky, but he’s a good guy when you get to know him. Kinda like Donut, if you know what I mean.”

And that…that is such a bizarre and blatantly false thing to say that his knee-jerk protest nearly stalls on his tongue, brain completely incapable of picking just one response. “They,” Washington says slowly, “Are nothing alike. Not even a little bit. You should stop talking if you’re going to be that wrong.”

He can’t believe he has to verbalize that at all. It should be obvious to anyone who has spent more than five minutes in their presence, and only that long if they were being quiet for some unnamed reason. He might not have known Tucker quite as long as York has, but what he does know is more than enough to make that judgment.

"Okay, I get it!" York says, throwing his hands up in defense. The corner of his eyes crinkle up at the edges, lips curled up and eye dancing with amusement. "Now would you stop giving me that look already? You keep that up and I might start worrying that you don't think I'm too bright."

He's practically being dared to say it, which is the only reason Washington bites his tongue on the insult that wants to escape. Unfortunately, his brief stay at arms is enough of a pause to grant that frown time to crawl back up onto York’s face, settling in like it wants to live there.

“Look,” Washington says, already tired of having this conversation, “If I tell you that you don't have to worry about Tucker and I, can we move on to talking about something else? Because I already know that he’s a good guy. That was never in question."

Strangely, that doesn’t seem to help matters much.

York squints at him over the table, going so still and so quiet in response to his reply that Wash has to fight back the urge to make sure he's still breathing. When he finally says something, it comes out in a burst of sound, surprising him with the force of his words. "Man, what _happened_ between you two last year? I've never heard you speak about anyone that way."

It’s clear from the way he says it that he can only be talking about one particular day.

"I never told you about that," Wash says quietly.

York winces apologetically, seeming to understand just how little Wash wants to talk about this.  “You didn’t have to. I know how you are, alright? After I saw how awkward you acted at the gym I got to thinking about when you could’ve met.”

Wash holds back a wince of his own.

“The last time I saw you acting that way was when you had that week long crush on Connie. And once I started wondering when you could have possibly had time to get the hots for Tucker—"

"I don't have the hots for him," Washington lies.

"Well, that's when I remembered last year's New Year's Eve party,” York finishes without missing a beat, “The two of you go missing around the same time and then a couple of hours later you text me saying you’re gonna leave just as Tucker comes back in? Didn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

“That’s convenient,” Washington replies, that tiny caught-out vulnerable feeling making him unwilling to bite it back this time, "You would’ve been lost otherwise.”

Just like before, York allows him the chance to recover some of his balance. “You’re a funny guy,” he says sardonically, “Did anyone ever tell you that? You should think about taking that show on the road. Preferably somewhere far away from here.”

“ _Maine_ thinks I’m funny,” Wash replies, jumping all over the change of subject, “I’m the only one who can ever make him laugh.” They once had a contest to see if anyone else could pull it off, but by the week’s end no amount of pranks or knock-knock jokes had done it. Wash accidentally mistaking Carolina’s shorts for his own, on the other hand…

“You sure he’s not laughing at you instead of with you?”

Washington glares at him. “He definitely thinks I’m funnier than you are.”

“Huh. I guess he hit his head harder than we thought.”

It’s a joke, but one that puts him smack dab in the middle of that uneasy mindset of before. It doesn’t feel right to talk about the injury that way, even if the person in question isn’t around to hear it.

Washington purposely puts a bit of frost in his voice. “You know that Maine doesn’t like it when people joke about the accident.”

York does a double take at the tone, eyebrows arching in an unasked question. He gets his answer in the form of the defiant tilt of Washington’s chin. Unexpectedly, it makes York smile, eyes softening and becoming fond and warm.

Washington relaxes at the sight.

“Don’t worry about it,” York says reassuringly. “It’s not like that, okay? Maine and I made a deal awhile back. He lets me crack all the jokes I want to about his hard head and in exchange he gets to sneak up on my blind side whenever he wants to see me jump.”

It certainly sounds like the kind of deal they would make. Especially York—it has his particular brand of humor written all over it, not that Maine is any less likely to ignore the chance to make someone scurry like a mouse. Really, he should’ve known it was something like that. No one who got a front row seat to the aftermath of Maine’s accident the way York did would ever be so flippant about it.

And even if he hadn’t been up close and personal, it wouldn’t matter. York may like to tease people sometimes, but he always makes sure to know where the line is and he would never poke at a wound that’s still bleeding.

“Sorry,” Washington says, “I shouldn’t have—”

York shakes his his head before Wash can finish his sentence. “Hey, I said don’t worry about it, didn’t I?” he says easily, “You were just looking out for him. I’d have done the same if someone was trying to pull that in front of me.”

“Yeah,” Wash says, “Yeah, I know.”

York smiles at him again, then pushes his plate back and digs in his pocket for a couple of bills, throwing a couple of twenties onto the table while his other hand motions to their waitress. "You can pay tomorrow," he says before Wash can protest, "Today's on me."

Wash clears his throat and smiles back. It feels a little weak, but it’s still there. "Is this your way of telling me you want to have lobster tomorrow?"

"That's right, Wash. You figured out my dastardly scheme."

"That's what I thought."

They talk about inconsequential things as they wait for the check to come, keeping the conversation as light as possible until the air between them returns and becomes natural and comfortable again. It takes almost the entire walk back to work before York allows himself to start harassing Wash about Tucker once more.

"All I'm saying is that you should consider what I said."

"And all _I'm_ saying is that this isn't the issue you think it is."

"Wash, c'mon, just give it a try, will you?” York asks him for the third time, “I'm not asking for too much. Just a little less arguing and a little more letting things slide."

He’s so sick of hearing those words that he’s no longer willing to put up with it until they go their separate ways. “Why is it so important to you that we get along?” Washington demands, coming to a halt in the middle of the street and narrowly avoiding a pedestrian, "You never cared about who I was friends with before."

York suddenly looks like he’s regretting bringing it up. He stops, waiting until it becomes evident that Wash isn’t going to move until he gets an answer. “I don’t know,” he says with a grimace, “Maybe I just want the in-laws to get along at the wedding.”

It's the last thing he expected to hear come out of York's mouth. Too earnest to be a joke and far too sincere to be ignored or overlooked.

Wash stares at him, completely stunned.

York falters under his gaze and begins to look uncommonly nervous. “Look, Wash, Carolina and I have been talking about it, and we know that she’s known you just as long as I have, but uh…” He straightens his back and tries his best to look casual. It doesn’t work very well. “I don’t…I don’t have a lot of family left. My parents died when I was on my first tour and my grandparents are pretty much strangers. So I was— _we_ were wondering if you and North would sit on my side during the ceremony.”

Washington inhales sharply. There are other people York could have asked to do this. People like Flowers, who he's known since basic, or South and Maine, who he was first introduced to a full three years before he ever met Wash. Any of them would've been a good choice.

"Would you say something already?"

"I...yes, of course," Washington manages to force out. He pushes down on that glowy-pleased feeling in the pit of his belly because he knows he'll be useless all day if he lets this get to him now. "Yes, of course I will. And I'll try to be more patient with Tucker.”

York opens his mouth.

“Provided, of course, that he doesn't take advantage of my good will like he did yesterday."

York rolls his eyes, but there's a curve to his lips he can't quite hide, a tilt to his head that's teasing, but happy, and more relieved than anything else. He turns and starts walking down the street with a bounce in his step. "You know, I'm starting to see what the problem is,” York says jokingly, “Anyone ever tell you you're wound just a little too tight?"

"South called me a buzzkill this morning after I tried to stop you two from jousting with a pair of office chairs and the Director's decorative sword collection," Wash says in a voice that’s dry as bone. He has to lengthen his stride just to catch up. "Does that count?"

"Of course it counts,” York tells him through his laughter, “See, that's what I mean! Someone's gotta teach you how to let go every now and then and have a good time."

Wash scoffs openly. "Oh, like I suppose you and South will have a good time when you’re doing inventory and checking equipment all week long?"

"Okay, so there were a few kinks in the plan..."

"Is that what you call it?" Washington asks. He doesn't bother waiting for an answer. It’s not enough to ruin it completely, but the reminder of his boss’s displeasure is enough to put a damper on his mood. "The Director's angry enough at me for the moment. I don't want to make it any worse than it already is. For the next few months I think it'll be best if I keep my head down."

York is forced to agree. "The man does have a long memory.”

To say the least. Still, he may be harsh and unforgiving, but he's rarely unreasonable and he won't let this drag on any longer than it has to. Hopefully by the time the Director's forgiven him, he will have been able to forgive himself.

The sound of his name being called is thankfully enough to shake him out of his head. Washington blinks hard and looks up to see York standing in front of the main entrance holding the door open for him to walk through.

"Are you coming in or what?"

Wash springs forward without a second thought. "Yeah,” he says as he passes through, ignoring the way York nudges him as he goes by to make sure he’s okay. “Sorry, I was just lost in thought."

"I could tell. It smelled like something was burning up there."

He shoots York the dirty look that statement deserves and throws one of his own insults back. “You know, I hear phantom smells are one of the first signs of a stroke. Maybe you're just getting old."

"There you go with those jokes again!"

As much as he’d like to do this all day, he’s due back at the gym for hand-to-hand in less than ten, so he has to cut the banter short. But before they go their separate ways, there’s still one more thing he has to know.

"York,” he says with a frown, “About what you said before..."

"Yeah? Which part?"

"The part with the pews and sitting on your side,” Washington explains. It didn’t occur to him before, but there’s something about it that doesn’t add up. “I thought you and Carolina said you weren't going to have separate sides."

York does his best to hold in his amusement, but can’t quite pull it off. "You really can't help ruining the moment, can you?" he drawls, teeth flashing on a mischievous grin, "You really ought to get that checked. I think it's a condition."

Washington narrows his eyes. "You really are the worst kind of person."

"Maybe get yourself a sense of humor while you're at it."

"The _worst_."

"You know you love me."

"I really don't."

 

* * *

 

His grandmother once told him that the mind had a way of inventing reasons to put things off, but that he should never let himself listen to its excuses because all it would lead to is him on his deathbed looking back on all the things he never did. Now, she was only saying that in order to get him to sneak a stripper into her hospital room, but that doesn’t change the fact that her advice was sound.

With that in mind, Washington wastes no time at all in following through on his promise to York and risks the Director’s wrath by leaving work early in order to drive to a shop on the other side of town.

He doesn’t know how well this plan of his is going to work, but any attempt at matching Tucker’s token of friendship has to be better than doing nothing at all. That’s the way he explained it to Maine, anyway, and he must have agreed if the directions he sent to Washington’s phone is any indication of his approval. Especially considering that Maine’s been hiding this place from them far too long for it to be a sign of anything else.

When he finally gets there, he’s surprised to discover that the place is nothing at all like he pictured it would be. Not that he ever pictured it exactly, but Maine’s insistence on keeping it secret and blatant refusal to let anyone share in the goods has elevated it to a somewhat mythical importance around the office. Anything short of heaven would be a disappointment.

Still, he doubts that anyone could’ve dreamed up a place like the Cupcake Café.

It looks like the strangest mix of a record store, winery, and old fashioned ice cream parlor. It’s not bad, exactly, but it’s definitely odd to say the least. The tables look like they’re made from repurposed beer barrels, the counters and checkered floors give it the flare of the 50s, and while the walls are bright and cheery they’re covered in so many old records that in some places it’s hard to see the paint.

Wash can truthfully say that he’s never seen anything like it before.

The woman behind the counter looks up when he walks through the door. “Welcome to The Cupcake Café,” she says in a voice that’s as bored as hell, “We make crazy cupcakes you won’t find anywhere else. We have fifty cent samples of all our regular flavors, and if you like what you taste you can sign up for a Calendar Club card and get a free cupcake every day of the week.”

Washington nods politely. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

He takes his time strolling alongside the display cases to see if anything catches his eye. It’s so much harder to decide than he thought it would be. There are so many flavors in combinations he never thought would go together, and the sheer variety makes the process almost daunting. And even if he could decide, there’s no guarantee that Tucker would like it.

For all he knows, Tucker could be one of those people who eat crazy things that no one else would touch. Like South, who likes to dip her poptarts in peanut butter, or Flowers, who has to special order his chocolate covered ants because no one in town sells them and he can't do without. Not only that, but...

Washington shoots back up out of his crouch. "Do you have any practices set aside for food allergies?" he asks the cashier urgently. He doesn't know if Tucker has one or not, but it's always better to be safe than sorry. He's spent more than enough time in the hospital this week.

"All nuts are chopped on separate counters and with different utensils and are washed in entirely different sinks," she informs him, bored look leaving her face at once. She rests her forearms on the counter and leans over, a hint of concern in her expression. "Employees have to sanitize their hands if they come in contact with any ingredients. We can't do much about vapor, but I take a guess that's not a problem for you."

Washington shakes his head. "It's not for me, it's for a friend,” he explains, mirroring her on the other side, “I'm trying to do something nice for him, but I don't want to..."

"Kill him?"

He gives a small huff of amusement. "Yeah. That."

"Hmm," she says thoughtfully, then shrugs at him, already done with the conversation, "I don't know what to tell you. Maybe you can call him up? Or you can buy some of our gluten-free vegan cupcakes without any nuts in them."

Washington sighs and thanks her for her assistance. Somehow he thinks that will go down about as well as a hole in the head. He backs away with one last look at the counter and then walks over to an empty corner of the room. He didn’t want to do this but it’s beginning to look like he doesn’t have a choice. All he can do now is grit his teeth and get it over with.

Wash sighs again and reluctantly reaches into his pocket.

“Without making any additional comments,” he says into the phone seconds later, hoping against hope that for once in his life someone will give him a break, “Can you tell me whether or not Tucker has any allergies and what flavor cupcake he prefers?"

There’s a beat that goes on far too long for his comfort.

“Uh, Wash? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I said _without_ any additional comments,” Washington says crankily, “Questions count as comments. So stop asking things. In fact, stop talking. You can text me the answer when we hang up.”

“Hey, you're the one who called me up, asshole."

"A decision I already regret making."

Church harrumphs. "You know, Wash, you should probably think about be nice to me if you want to use my expertise to mack on one of my friends."

“You don't have any expertise," Washington points out, letting a hint of tartness leak into his voice, "And stop saying that. I'm just trying to do something nice for him because York asked me to. That's the _only_ reason."

"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Romeo."

Washington has to force himself to take a deep breath before responding. He knows from experience that allowing himself to get sidetracked by argument with Church can put off his whole schedule for the day. It's better for everyone if he nips this in the bud right from the start and remains as civil as he can.

"Church,” he says as calm as he can, “Can you please _for the love of god_ just answer the question so I never have to speak to you again?"

"Okay, jeez. Don't be such a dick."

Church grumbles some more, but doesn’t say anything further. Washington has to clear his throat into the phone just to remind him to going.

"What? Oh, right. How the fuck would I know? I'm not his mother."

Washington hangs up the phone.

This time he calls Carolina—or rather he starts to call Carolina, but pauses with his thumb hovering over her name before deciding to text her instead. He doesn't want a repeat of what happened with Church. For all that the two of them are so very different, she can be just as bad as her brother sometimes, especially when teasing Wash about his nonexistent relationships. She’s just more subtle about it, that’s all, so just to be on the safe side he makes sure to word his question in a way that makes it impossible for her to misinterpret.

 _York asked me if I could try to get along better with Tucker at our appointments, so I decided to buy cupcakes as a peace offering,_ he taps out carefully, _Do you know if he has any allergies?_

The response comes a few seconds later.

_None. Trust me, I was his babysitter for years._

Washington relaxes in his chair. Well that was far more painless than he thought it would be. Easy, even, though that’s not a word he typically links with anyone with the last name Church. He sends back his thanks with a smile on his face.

_No problem. But if you really want to impress him, get him something with cinnamon.  ;)_

And just like that, the smile is gone. He already knows that any protestation that he could make would be useless and only dig him in deeper. Snarkiness, though. That’s a language they all understand.

_And what do I get him if I don't want to impress him?_

_Anything healthy._

The vegan cupcakes it is.

 

* * *

 

Even with the advice from Carolina cutting his allotted time in half, he still gets back to the gym approximately four minutes late for his appointment with Tucker.

Tucker is sprawled out on the weight bench when he walks in the room. He doesn’t get up when Wash comes in, either, only folds his hands behind his head and smirks up at the ceiling disparagingly. “Whatever happened to not wasting our time?”

Well, Wash can’t say he didn’t see this one coming. And like his grandmother said all those years ago: there’s no point in putting things off.  Better to get this over with from the start.

“You were right the other day,” Washington tells him, forestalling any more comments before they can start, “I was upset about what happened at work. But I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you. It was unprofessional, and even if I was rightfully annoyed at how late you were, there’s no excuse for the way I treated you.”

It’s enough to startle a noise from Tucker’s throat.  He pulls himself up into a sitting position, looking visibly off balance by the confession, and for a few seconds he does nothing but blink at Washington slowly.

"Uh, what?"

“I shouldn't have spoken to you that way," Wash says again. He strolls over while Tucker is still reeling from what he said and holds out the bag that’s still in his hand. "Here. I thought I could return the favor."

Tucker pulls the box out of the bag and stares at it with confused suspicion, eyeing it like he's worried it's going to explode in his face.

"They're cupcakes," Washington explains unnecessarily, "Cinnamon cupcakes with maple frosting and candied bacon sprinkles on top. They're supposed to taste like french toast. I tried to get as close to bacon donuts as possible."

“Aren’t you supposed to be trying to get me to eat healthy or something?”

"Cheating every once in awhile should be fine."

Tucker blinks again. "Cool."

"Right," Washington says. He shifts from foot to foot and fights off the instinct to duck his head. It makes him look like an awkward little boy when he does it and that's not exactly the impression he wants to give off right now. Even if it is how he feels.

They stare at each other for a very long time, long enough for Washington to regret choosing this particular moment to try and make things right. The parking lot at the end of their hour together would’ve made for a better time. If he had chosen to do it then, he could’ve handed the package over to Tucker and then got in his car before things got weird.

Why the hell didn’t he try the parking lot?

“Dude,” Tucker begins to say. He pauses to collect himself, but the odd tone in his voice doesn’t leave. “Dude, did you seriously just turn that dumb argument we had the other day into a hallmark moment?”

Wait, what?

Tucker shakes his head in disbelief. "Please, I hear worse from Church every day. I mean, fine, you got pissy with me and made me wanna piss in your cheerios, but so what? It wasn't that big of a deal. Don't make things weird."

Washington pinches the bridge of his noise. He’s going to kill York. He’s going to kill him if it’s the last thing he does. He should’ve known better than to trust that man’s opinion on anything. “You know what, Tucker?” Wash says wearily, “I’ll try my very hardest not to.”

Still, as misguided as York’s little plan was, it’s a relief to know that Washington was right all along and that things weren’t as bad as York made it seem. It would’ve been a nightmare if Tucker had actually been affected by his behavior. After all, he and Tucker are going to be seeing a lot of each other from now on. It doesn’t make sense to spend all their time fighting.

He has to remind himself of that once Tucker starts complaining a few minutes into their session. It starts off with a snide remark here and there, but by the time they get to the halfway mark Tucker has left all sign of politeness behind and has moved on to snippy comments and outright insults. And all of that Washington could have handled if Tucker weren’t also messing with the routine.

In the end, Washington manages to hold onto his temper until the last fifteen minutes of their appointment, only for all his hard work to be destroyed when Tucker purposely miscounts for the third time that night.

"The next time you try to pull that, I'm going to force you to run laps around the building until you collapse," Washington snaps, jaw clenched so tight that it actually hurts. "I don't care how much longer we have to stay."

Inexplicably, the threat makes Tucker smile. "Took you long enough,” he says in satisfaction, “I was beginning to think I'd have to talk about how much I wanna bang your mom. I mean, I've never met her, but I bet she's hot. And hey, I've always had a thing for blondes."

Washington blinks and says, “My mother has brown hair, actually.”

He knows how inane it sounds, but right now his brain is floundering and can’t think of a good enough response. His fists on the other hand have a pretty good idea, but he’s made it a policy over the years to never let them be in charge of higher thinking.

Tucker shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Hey, that’s cool. Lavernius Tucker bangs all kinds of women. Red heads, brunettes, hot as fuck blondes, whatever. I don’t judge people on the color of their hair, just on the quality of their ass.”

"I...excuse me?" Washington says.

This is quite possibly turning out to be the strangest conversation he’s ever had. One minute he was threatening Tucker with more exercise, and then—the penny finally drops and outrage takes over. “Are you telling me that you just spent the better part of an hour driving me up a wall on purpose?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tucker says, scrambling away, “Chill the fuck okay. I was just doing it because you looked like you were gonna blow a gasket if you had to bite your tongue one more time.”

“I can’t _believe_ you—”

Tucker shakes his head like Washington is just trying to be difficult. “Look, I already told you I'm not gonna fucking cry just because you're a bitch sometimes, okay? So if you want someone to be all sensitive and shit, go hang out with Simmons instead. Hope you don't mind him calling you 'Dad.'"

Wash decides that for the sake of his own sanity he’ll let that one go. It’s a little too close to the kinds of things Flowers like to say and frankly he doesn’t need any more mental pictures. For everyone’s sake, it’s better to get on with it.

He takes a deep breath and slowly relaxes his body from head to toe using those breathing techniques Frank taught him so long ago. "Fine,” he says as he releases the last of the tension, “Then why don’t we get back to work? Assuming, of course, that you’ll behave this time.”

Tucker shrugs and says, “Meh.”

Breathe in…2…3….4…

Breathe out…2…3…4…

Tucker lets his face screw up until it's almost comical, an exaggerated expression of consideration that makes it seem so much more important than it really is. "Well, you did bring me cupcakes,” he points out, “So I guess I can behave."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind for the future.”

Tucker smirks at him one more time before getting back to work, going back to his overhead triceps extensions ten numbers ahead of where he should be. But it's been a long week, so Washington decides to let that go too. “Keep those elbows close to your ear.”

Tucker complies with a grunt. "Hey, you know I also take fifties,” he jokes, waggling his eyebrows at Wash during a pause, “Or twenties. Or fives, whatever, I'm not picky."

"You want _me_ to pay _you_ for doing the work you're paying me to force you to do? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yeah, can we do that? That would be awesome."

Wash pretends to think about it for a moment. "That's certainly an idea," he agrees, tapping a finger against his cheek. "But I think we should try something else first. For every miscount, complaint, or minute you waste arguing over the exercises I choose, you have to pay me five extra dollars.”

“Uh,” Tucker says.

“By my count, that means you would owe me,” Washington pauses, doing a quick mental calculation that’s at least somewhat embellished, “Hmm, about seventy dollars today, give or take. Does that sound fair to you?"

"Whoa, okay, don't get crazy now."

"That's what I thought you'd say."

Tucker seems strangely rejuvenated by the banter. Usually by this point in their session he's lagging, frustrated and ready to go home, but tonight he makes it through the rest of his exercises and subsequent cool down without once implying that Wash is attempting to torture him for kicks. It makes for a surprisingly pleasant ending to their night. Tucker seems to think so too if the way he bounces out the locker room is any indication.

Wash holds out the plastic bag as soon as he gets near. "Don't forget this."

"Oh, fuck no," Tucker exclaims, almost snatching it from his hand. He pulls out the box and takes a deep sniff after opening, savoring the smell of the pastries inside before reaching in and bringing the cupcake to his mouth.

He takes his time licking the frosting from his lips when he’s done.

Washington clears his throat. "Good?"

Mmm, yeah," he says blissfully, tongue swiping across the cream once more and slurping sprinkles into his mouth. "It doesn't really taste like French toast, but it's good." He takes another bite of the cake and cocks his head, nodding his approval. "Kinda tastes like a cinnamon roll."

"I know, that’s why I got it," Wash says, too busy staring at Tucker's lower lip to concentrate on what he's saying, and then winces once the flood of realization comes over him. There’s no way that Tucker could know about his conversation with Church and Carolina, but the mere possibility of him asking is enough to make him cringe. “We should go. The Director doesn't like us to stick around any longer than we have to unless we're working or training."

He turns and leads the way through the building without waiting for a response. Thankfully, Tucker never sticks around longer than he has to, so he’ll be able to put that one-sided moment of awkwardness aside in less than a minute. But tonight, Tucker doesn’t follow his normal routine. Tonight, Tucker stands and talks with him as he locks up.

"What?" Tucker asks, cutting himself off halfway through some convoluted story about getting questioned by the police when he was ten years old after he and Church attempted to break into the Director’s office. Attempted being the key word, of course, because he doubts the two got anywhere as close as Tucker implied.

Washington doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t understand. “It’s nothing,” he replies, “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. You’re usually on your way home by now.” Too busy ducking past with a distracted wave on his way to his car, often without ever saying goodbye. He acts like he can’t stand being here any longer than he has to.

“So? Who cares? It’s not like Junior’s gonna freak out if I’m two minutes late,” Tucker points out, shrugging it off with a complete lack of concern. “He’s eight, not three. Almost nine. And Sheila’s there with him anyway, so it’s cool.”

"Right," Washington agrees.

Sheila, he assumes, is Junior's babysitter, provided that Tucker doesn't have a wife or girlfriend that Wash is unaware of. After all, his desire to "impress the ladies" doesn't necessarily mean he's single; it's possible he just likes the attention, or that he's the type to cheat, or even that he and his partner are in an open relationship. Either way, it's none of his business. He knows he has no right to ask.

Besides, he could always ask North.

“Ugh,” Tucker says, “Seriously, _what?_ ”

Washington startles. “What?”

“No, that’s what I was asking,” Tucker says impatiently. He smacks Washington in the side with the hand still holding his second cupcake. It would’ve smeared frosting all over his shirt Wash hadn’t grabbed it and twisted it away just in time. “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

“I’m not staring at you! Nobody is staring at anyone,” Washington says. He lets his hands fall away from Tucker’s wrist and then turns back to tug on the lock to make sure it’s secure. It conveniently puts his back to Tucker. “I was just caught up in my own thoughts and got distracted.”

Tucker doesn’t look convinced. “Uh huh...”

You know what? He’s made himself look like enough of a fool for one day. There’s no need to draw it out any further. “Look, Tucker, it’s been a long day,” he says with a wan smile, “So if you don’t mind I’m going to cut this conversation short so that I can go home and get some rest.”

“Oh. Uh...yeah. Okay.”

Tucker looks a little taken aback by the suddenness of Washington’s decision, but he agrees easily enough and walks Wash all the way to his car in the back of the parking lot before at last saying his goodbyes.

“Next time you should buy a couple for yourself,” Tucker jokes before he goes, waving the empty cupcake box in the air. He snorts, but not in a mocking way. “Two’s not really enough to share, dude. You should’ve gotten a dozen for us like I did.”

Washington makes a face at the thought of all that cloying sweetness. “No, it’s fine,” he says, wincing just thinking of the way his teeth would ache if he ate, “I’m not really a fan of sugary things. Not unless they taste like fruit.”

“Man, you really are the most boring guy on the planet, aren’t you?”

“Yes. By all means, continue judging me based on my palate. I’m sure that’s an acceptable and in no way irrational thing for an adult to do.”

Tucker smirks. “I bet you fold your underwear too.”

“...I’m going to say goodbye now.”

The car door slamming shut behind him muffles the burst of laughter that follows.

 

 

* * *

 

What Washington never told York and what no one else will think to mention is this: no amount of petty arguments or casual irritation will ever be enough to make him hate Tucker. It would take something far, _far_ worse than that. Something so incredibly awful that he would have no choice but to cut Tucker out of his life forever.

It’s not because York asked him to. It’s not because of some faint attraction. It’s not because of his relationship with Carolina or Church or Donut or Frank. It’s not even because Tucker himself. He knows too little about him for it to be that.

It’s not because of any of that, although those are all very good reasons. No, his reasons are because of one thing and one thing alone: what Tucker did for him nine months ago on New Year’s Eve.

Sometimes it's not about what someone says or does, but what they mean to you at a certain point in your life.

One year ago, Washington was miserable and depressed, lonely and ill-tempered, shaken by the thought that he couldn’t remember who he was before Frank entered his life. It was overdramatic but sincerely felt and some part of him honestly believed that nothing would ever be the same again.

And then he met Tucker.

Tucker, who stumbled into his arms one night and lit the first spark of interest he’d felt in forever. Tucker, with his dark eyes and amiability, effortlessly pushing through every one of Washington’s defenses and making him laugh.

It was only after that night that he finally let himself believe what his brain was telling him all along: that one day, he too would be happy, that one day, he too would move on.

It would take a lot to make Washington forget how that made him feel.

 


	6. A Long Week

 

**Wednesday**

Carolina waits two whole weeks before dropping the bomb on him.

After the first couple of days without retribution, he starts wondering if dealing with Reggie is really going to be all the punishment he gets. After the first week he relaxes enough to lower his guard. After the second week, he stops staring suspiciously whenever they meet. By the time the third week comes and goes, the possibility of her getting revenge is so far from his mind that he doesn't understand what's going on until he's reading the invitation for the second time.

"What the fuck?" Tucker says aloud.

Junior pokes his head up from his math book. "What happened?" he asks curiously, a little too eager to stop working on his homework for the look of concern on his face to be entirely believable.

"Uh, nothing. Don't worry about it. Your Aunt Carolina's just trying to torture me some more."

Junior wrinkles his nose in disappointment. "Oh," he says, staring down at his book glumly, "I thought it was gonna be something cool."

"Yeah, thanks for the sympathy."

Tucker wanders off to get some privacy, waiting until he's in the kitchen before digging into his pocket and pressing speed dial number two on his phone. "What the fuck?" he says again as soon as it stops ringing, "I thought they didn't want to have a party."

He hears an unexpected but familiar gasp. "Is it a birthday party?" the voice on the other end exclaims, "Is there going to be cake?"

Tucker stares down at his phone in confusion, thumb automatically moving to hover over the end call button. "Caboose?" he says suspiciously, "What are you doing answering Church's phone?"

If Sarge switched the names on his cell again as part of some messed up plan to confuse the enemy before the inter-office softball game, Tucker's really going to reconsider the decision to not poison his food. No fucking way is he going to accidentally send the wrong text or picture to the wrong person again. He's still having trouble looking his mom in the eye.

"Why am I answering Church's phone?" Caboose echoes nervously, "Oh. Um...that is a very good question. I was answering his phone because...hm, because—"

"Spit it out, dude."

"I was answering the phone because...yes, I was answering his phone because Church was so sad! Because he forgot to give me— _his very best friend_ —his new phone number. And now he is so sad because he cannot tell me stories before I go to bed or invite me over to watch tv with him or say how much he misses me and wants Tex to move out so we can be roommates again forever."

"Uh huh," Tucker says.

"So I decided to get his number so we can do that again," Caboose continues, "And then everything will be perfect forever! But we do not need to tell Church about this because then it will not be a surprise."

"Yeah, I bet."

Tucker opens his mouth to do something he definitely won't regret, like telling Caboose that Church would love it if he visited every day or taking it a step further and suggesting he move back in when Church is at work, but he's interrupted by the sudden sound of Church having a hissy fit on the other side of the line.

There's something about Caboose breaking into Church's apartment, and then something else about him racking up the charges on Church's phone to talk to his pen pal in the Netherlands, but after that Tucker tunes the whole thing out until he notices Church's voice growing closer.

"I swear to god, Caboose,  if the person on the other end is speaking Norwegian or whatever the fuck they speak there, I will—"

"They don't speak Norwegian in the Netherlands, dude," Tucker points out helpfully, making sure to speak loud enough for the others to hear him over the yelling, "They speak like Danish or German or shit like that. Maybe French, I don't fucking know."

Church keeps talking without missing a beat, acting as though he knew it was Tucker all along. "You know what? The day I take lessons from a guy who cheated off Grif his entire freshman year is the day I tell Caboose he can come live with me for good. Which means it's—Caboose, stop cheering! That was hypothetical."

Caboose cheers again.

"Hypothetical means it's never gonna happen," Church bites out. The cheers die off as quickly as they started, replaced by a sound so sad that even Tucker feels a twinge of guilt. "It means it's imaginary—"

"Just like his relationship with Sheila!"

Okay, so not _that_ big of a twinge.

"Oh, don't you start with that," Church grumbles, "I had to spend all weekend listening to him moan about Lopez asking her out. Do you know how hard that was for me to hear? I had to turn up the tv just to drown out all the crying."

"Yeah, your life is so hard," Tucker says drily, "Tell you what, why don't you try hooking him up with Emalia again? I mean, hell, if he didn't get mad at her for sending him all those letters about making his dick bigger then it's gotta be love."

Church snickers. "Heh, you know I would, but Caboose swore off long distance relationships after dating that Nigerian princess. Something about them being too high maintenance."

"Plus, they keep asking you for money all the time! Do you know how many lap dances Caboose could have gotten with real women for all the money he sent before we stopped him? He could've paid off everyone's tuition by now. Candy could've started up that real estate agency she's been dreaming about!"

"I'm going to have to take your word for it. Unlike you, I don't measure money in g-strings."

Church doesn't know what he's missing out on.  It's way easier to budget your finances when you think of it in terms of pizza and strippers. When he tried thinking about it in terms of groceries and gas he nearly went broke.

"Okay cool," Tucker responds, "Keep being boring. But whatever, I didn't call you up to talk about lap dances."

"Huh. I guess you're growing as a person."

"Yeah, uh huh, growing, that's me," Tucker says, powering through, "So anyway, what's up with this whole engagement dinner invite I got in the mail? I thought they didn't want a party. What made them change their mind?"  

"You mean _who_ made them change their mind."

And suddenly the whole thing becomes clear as day.

"He said he wanted to 'throw the happy couple a celebration devoted to their future happiness,'" Church quotes in an eerie mimicry of his father's self-righteous drawl, "You gotta admit, the guy has a way with words. It takes skill to make something that douchey sound like a touching fatherly gift."

"Ugh."

"Oh, and get this: he told her that he was doing it on behalf of our dead mother. Y'know, because she never got a chance to live long enough to see this day."

Leave it to the Director to use his own grief as a tool of manipulation. The guy knows that Carolina won't deny him anything once Allison is brought up, too afraid of how the sadness will effect him to worry about what she wants to do. And now Carolina has to share this moment with everyone when all she wanted was to hold it close.

"What a dick!"

Church snorts. "Yeah, tell me about it. And now a bunch of people are giving everyone headaches because they weren't told back in July," he informs Tucker, "Especially Great-Aunt Erma—who, for the record? Is still a bitch."

The same great-aunt who called Carolina a floozy for wearing sleeveless shirts in the middle of summer. Yeah, what a fucking surprise. "Hey, Church?" Tucker asks, "Is there anyone in your family that doesn't completely suck? I'm just curious because I've never met any."

"Well, uh, I don't know, Tucker. My grandma on my dad's side isn't too bad, but that might be because she's been in a coma for years."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

He sighs a little thinking about how much trouble this is going to cause for everyone involved—especially them, because if Carolina is miserable then she's also going to be pissed and she's never been shy about taking her anger out on them before. "So she's definitely not gonna let us skip, right?"

Church gives a long sigh of his own. "Nope. She says if either of us even think about it she's going to rip our faces off and have Donut turn them into party favors."

"Great."

"And she wants us to be on our best behavior, so no getting into fights with the Director or else."

He's almost afraid to ask, but he does it anyway. "Or else what?"

"Uh, I don't know. She was holding a potato peeler kind of funny, so I didn't ask any follow up questions."

Church doesn't usually let that stop him. If anything, he tends to take it as a sign to butt in where he's not wanted or mouth off even more. He's that kind of guy. "I'm surprised you let that convince you."

Church snorts. "Who said I had to be convinced?"

Tucker hopes that the pod person who replaced Church is less of a dick than the original one. He could use some better friends. "Alright," he says with a shrug, "So why'd you agree to go?"

"Okay, see, Carolina keeps telling everyone how gracious his offer is, right? But I'm pretty sure she's gonna try to talk him into something smaller. Which means one thing—"

"Those stupid restaurants he takes us to whenever something big happens!"

"Bingo."

The kind of restaurant that comes with a dress code—more expensive than anything any of them would go to on their own, but with the kind of food you can't get anywhere else. And best of all is that the Director always picks up the tab, so none of them will have to pay for a thing.

He can hear the smirk in Church's voice when he says, "I plan on ordering the most expensive goddamn thing on the menu and all the alcohol I can drink without falling over. It's gonna be great."

Fuck yeah. Free food, the equivalent of an open bar, and the chance to piss off the Director in a way that Carolina won't bust their balls over. Tucker checks the date on the invitation again and makes a mental note to keep it free.

 

* * *

 

**Thursday**

He jerks awake from a dream of middle school, heart pounding with the full realization of what he signed up for. He can't believe he ever agreed to go—it's as if his brain just blocked out everything he witnessed over the years: the endless arguments and the awful insults, the constant needling and emotional manipulation that make Church and Carolina seem smaller than they really are.

There's no fucking way he's going to sit through that again, especially not with gritted teeth and a bitten tongue full of bitterness on someone else's behalf.

"Sorry, can't go," he lies much later, "I have to take Junior to the dentist that day. Totally slipped my mind. But what can you do? An appointment's an appointment. You can't just reschedule that shit."

"You have to take Junior to the dentist."

"Yeah."

"At seven o'clock in the evening."

Tucker shrugs. "What can I say, the kid's got a lot of cavities. They say it might take all day long to fix them. I keep telling him he needs to floss after brushing, but what do I know? I'm just his dad."

Carolina crosses her arms.

Tucker feels a tug on his shirt and looks down to see Junior flashing those Bambi eyes again. "You said I didn't have to go any more this year," Junior says anxiously. "As long as I brushed my teeth everyday. You said."

Tucker shifts in his seat.

Carolina shoots him a dirty look before turning her gaze on Junior. "Don't worry," she tells him, "You don't really have an appointment. Your dad is just being stupid again."

Junior glances back at his dad, who reluctantly nods. Without saying another word, Junior goes back to pretending to watch the end of the The Avengers. It's his favorite part, but he doesn't seem to care, eyes staring blankly ahead while he fidgets with an empty cup.

Tucker and Carolina trade looks.

Junior's been doing that kind of thing a lot lately. The school says he's having trouble making friends. They haven't mentioned anything about teasing, but Tucker has his suspicions. They've been through this sort of thing before.

Carolina leans over Tucker to ruffle Junior's hair and proves she's still got some of her old talent for cheering kids up. "Hey, did you know your dad used to hate going to the dentist?"

For the first time in days, Junior looks interested in something. He shifts toward her like the sun, head tilted up in curiosity. "Really?" he asks, peering over at Tucker for confirmation.

"Yup," she replies, "I once caught him trying to fake his own death so his mom would cancel his appointment. The kitchen was covered in fake blood."

Junior's eyes bug out in disbelief. "But that's dumb."

"It was," Carolina agrees.

"Hey, I had like five minutes to figure out something, okay?" Tucker protests. He puts on an exaggerated scowl for Junior's benefit, forcing himself to hide a grin when it results in a smile. "It was all I could think of on short notice!"

Junior buries his face in his hands.

"See, Tucker," Carolina teases, reaching over him again to pat Junior on the back in an unnecessary display of sympathy, "I told you being eight was no excuse for poor planning."

"Yeah, I'm nine and—"

Tucker scoffs. "You're eight."

Junior frowns at the reminder. "I'm gonna be be nine," he corrects himself, "And I don't try to fake my death." He frowns again. "Captain Flowers says it's really hard. He told me and Theta it's easier to get rid of bodies than to fake evidence."

"Heh, probably," Tucker agrees. That's what like thirty seasons of Law & Order and dozen of C.S.I. have taught him, anyway. He doesn't know why anyone bothers with crimes anymore. It seems like way too much work.

Carolina narrows her eyes. "I think someone needs to have a talk with Flowers about appropriate conversations to have with children."

Like he gives a shit. All he cares about right now is the light that's back in Junior's eyes letting him know that everything will be okay. He'll talk about anything, will do anything just to keep it there. As far as he's concerned, nothing else matters.

While Carolina tries her best to distract Junior away from corpses with another story, Tucker surreptitiously takes his phone out and texts North. _Think Theta will be up for a sleepover late Sunday?_ he types, _I'm thinking about turning Columbus Day into an early bday party for Junior._

Sure thing, comes the reply a few moments later, Theta says it sounds like fun.

Hopefully the sleepover will have a longer lasting effect than a two second smile from a story about Tucker being an idiot kid. If anyone can do it it's Theta. Junior thinks he's the coolest person in the world.

Tucker slips his phone back in between the couch cushions and gives himself a nod. It's gonna work—it _has_ to—but until that time comes, Tucker's gonna make the best of what he has.

He meets Carolina's gaze for a split second, just long enough for her to understand what he wants her to do. Without missing a beat she starts to embellish all of the worst parts of the story, exaggerating every moment for mockery's sake until they're both arguing over what really took place.

Junior doesn't seem to know where to look, eyes wide as he listens to them argue, all of it carefully boiling over until one perfectly timed look of horror from Tucker has Junior bursting into uncontrollable giggles.

Carolina barely pauses in her story, but her elbow nudges Tucker in the side.

Gratefully, he nudges her back.

 

* * *

 

**Friday**

Junior spends the day walking on air. Nothing fazes him—not the project he gets assigned that he’ll have to work on all week, not the discovery that his favorite show has already been cancelled, not even the reminder that there's yet another barbecue he won't be able to go to—none of it seems to touch him at all. As far as Junior's concerned, this upcoming week will be one of the best of his life.

Thanks to Tucker's planning, Junior's birthday has turned into almost a week long event. Junior's arrival back home on Sunday kicks off the whole celebration with two days straight filled with junk food, video games, and a complete lack of bedtime.

After that, they get a two day break, but when Thursday comes—Junior's _actual_ birthday—he'll get one of those class celebrations of cake and ice cream, followed by pizza and presents at home. And finally, when Saturday comes again, he'll get two days with his mother's side of the family getting spoiled with delicious food and awesome gifts.

By the end of the week, he'll be loaded up on so much sugar that he might need a visit to the dentist after all.

 

* * *

 

**Saturday**

"It's gonna be awesome."

"So you've said," Washington says in amusement.

Yeah, okay, maybe he _has_ mentioned it a time or two, but that's only because it's so fucking important that Junior gets to have this moment. Wash isn't like the others. He doesn't understand—doesn't _need_ to understand—just how much people suck sometimes. He doesn't know how many times Junior's cried because some asshole kid told him he talks funny. He doesn't know how many asshole adults have done the same. So if Junior needs a week long reminder that no one important gives a shit about things like that then Tucker is going to give it to him.

None of that is Washington's business, however, and he refuses to let the thought sour his mood, so Tucker just grins and says again, "Junior's gonna be so fucking happy."

Washington smiles as he sinks the nine ball in the corner pocket. Tucker hasn't really been paying attention to the game, but he's pretty sure that Wash is winning, if only because Tucker hasn't gotten a chance yet to take his turn.

"Simmons, I'm gonna need to borrow a couple of—"

"No," Simmons bites off, "I'm not paying off any more of your debts. My credit rating is still trying to recover from that time you stole my identity."

Tucker shakes his head when Washington looks over at him with raised eyebrows. No, he doesn't want to hear that story. No, it's not as interesting as it sounds. Yes, those two are fucking morons.

"Look, if one of us doesn't pay her the rest of that money by the end of the night, I'm gonna wake up tomorrow morning in a bathtub wondering where my kidney went!” Grif says urgently, “Is that what you want, Simmons?"

"You should've thought about that before you made that bet," Simmons shoots back, hands flailing angrily in the air, "Why should I have to pay just because you were too stupid to realize that Tucker sucks at pool?"

"Hey!" Tucker exclaims indignantly at the same time Tex says, "If you can't pay in cash, you could always pay me in other things. Like a favor, for instance."

Even Washington looks uneasy at the thought of that. He eyes his pool stick and the eight ball he has yet to sink in. "Don't even think about it, dude," Tucker tells him, "There’s no way I'm gonna let my first win be because you decided to throw the game."

Washington's lips curve up. "It might be the only chance you have."

Tex gives a bark of laughter. "No kidding," she drawls, then lets her voice go sly and threatening, "But Tucker knows what would happen if he took you up on that offer, doesn't he?"

"I wouldn't get to see you make Grif decide which kidney he gets to keep?"

Tex grins wolfishly at him.

"Simmons, come on!"

Tucker wanders around the table to watch the arguing from a safe distance. "How much does a kidney go for, anyway?" he muses aloud, "Are we talking new car money or what?"

"For a healthy kidney, yes," Washington tells him, because freelancers are incapable of not being creepy, "But for one of Grif's kidneys?" He snorts and shakes his head. "She'll be lucky if she can buy an extra value meal."

Tucker smirks.

They turn back to the whispered argument just in time to witness Grif shoot Tucker an accusing glance. "How the fuck was I supposed to know?" Grif blurts out, "Wasn't he on the pool team in high school?"

Wash looks insultingly skeptical, which is fair.

"What are you talking about?" Simmons says, "Our school didn't have a billiards team. Or a billiards club. We didn't even have a pool table!"

"No, I definitely remember people mentioning pool."

"No you didn't, it's a—"

Tucker refuses to listen to this go any further than it already has, even if it means he’s going to have to get a bunch of shit from his friends. "He's talking about the swimming pool," he explains, "That's the only team I was ever on."

And then Tucker waits for the inevitable comments.

Tex is the first one to make her move. She places a finger on her chin and peers at him as if measuring him up, making him feel like nothing more than a piece of meat. It's pretty awesome. "So, Tucker," she begins teasingly, "Did they make you wear those tiny speedos?"

"Did they make you shave your back?"

"Did it really make you more aerodynamic?"

Everyone turns to stare at Simmons in disbelief.

Simmons coughs and shifts awkwardly under everyone's gaze. "Sorry. I mean, uh, did have to wax your legs before every meet?"

Washington says nothing, but Tucker has a sneaking suspicion he's smirking down at Tucker's calves. He can't see it, but he's sure it's happening. But fuck it, Tucker has nothing to be ashamed of. "Hell yeah, I wore those tiny speedos. Do you know how many dates they got me? Chicks love knowing what they have to work with."

"Ugh," Simmons says.

Tex scratches her chin thoughtfully, "I don't know. Makes sense to me. If I had known what Church was working with ahead of time, I would've thought twice about pity sex that night."

Tucker gives her a high five for that one.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of movement, and he turns in time to see Washington rubbing at his temples again. "Ever since I met you, I seem to have twice as many conversations about genitalia as I used to," he informs Tucker unhappily.

"Welcome to our world," Grif mutters, "Between him and Donut we can't go a day without having one. I've never met two guys so obsessed with dicks."

"Sounds about right," Wash agrees.

"Hey!"

Tex scoffs at them. "Oh please," she says derisively, "I've never heard guys talk about anything else. They're always bringing out rulers or drawing cocks on everything—"

"That is not the same and you know it!" Grif replied. He huffs and crosses his arms. "Hypothetical dicks are one thing, but anyone who goes around talking about other people's or bragging about their own like they want some dude to sit up and take notice is just weird, alright? Guys aren't supposed to—"

"Supposed to what?" Washington says mildly.

It's a lot more entertaining being on this side of the line, Tucker thinks with glee, watching as Grif freezes when he realizes what he said and who he said it to.

"Nice job dumbass," Simmons hisses.

Tucker rocks on his feet and grins so wide his cheeks start hurting. He already knows what's going to happen next. They've only known each other for a month, but he knows that particular brand of petty by now. The crack of a pool stick hitting the ball is only confirmation.

They all watch as the little black ball rolls along the green felt at an almost mocking pace, taking its time as it drifts toward the middle pocket until it sinks in with a small thud. As one, Grif and Simmons turn to Tex with a look of trepidation.

"So what'll it be, boys?" she says with a wicked look, "Are you going to give me my money, or am I going to have to figure out the market value for a pair of slightly used testicles?"

Grif gulps audibly. "What was that favor option again?"

 

* * *

 

Washington eyes him the entire way to the backyard. He ignored it as they made their way through the den and up the stairs, but something about the privacy up here has him unwilling to ignore it any longer.

“Okay, what?” he demands, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Wash arches a brow significantly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice how quickly you changed your mind about staying once Grif started talking favors?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tucker lies. And even if he did, it's not like he'd tell Wash about it, not when he's being all vague and melodramatic again. He's not going to encourage that bullshit.

Washington rolls his eyes and keeps on walking.

"I don't," Tucker insists stubbornly. He doesn't know why he's turning this into a whole thing, but that doesn't mean he's going to give in. "I just wanted to get the fuck out of there before Simmons started crying. No one wants to see that."

Wash snorts. "Now I _know_ you're lying."

"Nah. I mean, it starts off funny, but after awhile it just gets really awkward. You can only hear about people's daddy issues for so long before you want to stab someone."

"And that's all that was? No other reason?"

"Nope."

Washington looks at him suspiciously..

"Okay," Tucker admits, "I might have been freaking out because I remembered that I owe Grif a favor he could trade Tex for. But dude, I don't wanna lose my balls! I use them for all the good stuff."

Washington snorts again.

The silence this time is more comfortable than the last. They stroll into the kitchen companionably, arms grazing as they walk through the archway, just their own thoughts and each other to keep them company.

"Hey, Wash?" Tucker says hesitantly, "Did you—"

A loud laugh pierces through the doors to the backyard, startling him into halting where he stands. His mouth slams shut on the unasked question, heart suddenly pounding for no reason at all. He forgot who he was talking to for a second.

"Did I what?"

"Nothing," he answers automatically. But the topic has been weighing on his mind for awhile and he supposes that Wash is as good of a person to ask as any. "So you kind of look like you were a dork when you were growing up. Did you ever have trouble making friends?"

"Why, are you in the market for new ones?"

Tucker narrows his eyes, hands clenching into fists.

Wash's eyebrows fly up when he notices. "Holy shit," he says mildly, "You weren't just insulting me, you were asking me a real question." He thinks about it for a moment. "Who's to say I wasn't popular?"

Because good looking people are the ones that are popular. That's been a fact wherever he went to school. And Wash? There's no way he was attractive. He couldn't have been. People aren't allowed to look good their entire life. It's like a rule or something. You either do the ugly duckling thing or you start off hot, go bald, buy a hair piece, and relive your football days with people who aren't interested.

Tucker is lucky; he's the inevitable exception to the rule, starting off good and only improving with age. Kinda like a fine wine, if fine wine had a great ass and huge hands.

"Never mind," Wash says, "I'm not sure I want to hear your explanation."

"Yeah, probably not," Tucker agrees.

"But to answer your question: no, I didn't," Washington says finally, "I rarely had trouble making friends at school. I knew someone who did, though. A boy. A friend of mine. He used to get bullied all the time because he had an accent."

Tucker tilts his head. "What happened to him?"

"He wound up having to transfer schools."

There's a moment where Tucker doesn't quite understand, but then he's off and running, yelling at Washington at the top of his lungs. "What the fuck!?" he bursts out, "Why the fuck would you say that, asshole?"

Washington's face does the equivalent of backing a step away. " _Excuse me?_ " he says with a hint of coldness to his tone, "I was just answering your question."

"I know!" Tucker yells, "You're such a dick!"

Wash throws his hands up in disgust, already turning to leave the kitchen. "Okay, you know what? We're done here _Lavernius_ ," he replies, "Talk to me when you're prepared to be reasonable."

"I am being reasonable! I just don't want my kid to have to change schools!"

He didn't mean to say that. It just came tumbling out in the heat of the moment, spilling from his lips like he hasn't been buttoned up on the topic when it comes to anyone but his friends. But whether he meant it or not it's out in the open and it immediately stops Wash in his tracks.

Washington slowly turns around.

"I don't want to hear any of your stupid apologies—"

"My friend Maine had trouble making friends."

Tucker halts mid-sentence. "Uh...what?"

"My friend Maine—sorry, Max. You might know him as Max?" Washington asks, but Tucker shrugs. He doesn't recognize the name, but then there's a lot of people he doesn't care about. "He had trouble making friends. He still does."

Tucker hovers between wanting to hope and wanting to run away.

"It took time, but now he can't get rid of us all."

Tucker thinks about that and then thinks about Junior, rolling the idea over in his mind. He can't picture it, he discovers to his dismay. He can't imagine a world where Junior's birthday parties are filled with people. But he wants to believe it's possible.

"Thanks," he says to his own surprise.

Washington shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," he says, "I should have taken your question more seriously. If I had known what you were talking about, I would have—"

"Dude, I _just_ told you I didn't want to hear you apologizing."

"Right," Wash says, looking a little flustered, "Right, of course."

They go silent yet again.

This awkward as fuck thing they keep doing is slowly getting out of control. It's like they can't be in each other's company for more than twenty minutes without one of them getting acting like a douchebag or getting weirdly emotional. It sucks and it seriously needs to stop.

Tucker strides over to the door and throws it open, taking a step outside. After a beat, Washington follows behind. "So anyway, this whole week is going to kick ass," he says just to say something at all, "Junior's been going around bragging about everything. Caboose is totally jealous, it's so stupid."

"I don't think I've met him yet," Washington admits.

Tucker snorts. "You're not missing much."

"He has an...interesting name."

Tucker side-eyes the hell out of him for that one. "Aren't all your friends named after states?" he points out, "Aren't you named after a state?"

"That's my real name!" Washington protests, "The rest are just nicknames. Except the twins. And Carolina, obviously. But you knew that already. Why are we arguing about this?

"We're not," Tucker says, "I was just pointing out that you were being a huge hypocrite. Also, _seriously_? That's their real names? Did their parents hate them or what?"

"From what North tells me they were supposed to be named after the place they were conceived, but it was unfortunately during a road trip so they could only narrow it down to..."

Washington trails off and Tucker follows his worried gaze across the yard to where North is pressing a hand to Theta's forehead. Even from here Tucker can see how flushed he is, how he's listing against North like he can barely stand. He's sick and it's obvious to anyone with eyes.

Tucker must be selfish, because all he can think about is his kid.

"He must have gotten that flu that's going around," he hears North tell his sister as they draw near. He thinks he feels Wash draw closer at the explanation, but he's not sure. "He'll be knocked out for a few days, but he should be fine."

South snorts. "Someone isn't going to be happy about that."

"I know, and it's unfortunate, but—"

Washington coughs, alerting the others to their presence. South doesn't bat an eye, but North grimaces to see them there. "Sorry, Tucker," he says sympathetically, "I don't think Theta is going to make it tomorrow. If he's feeling better by Monday, I'll try to bring him over for a couple of hours."

“Cool," Tucker mutters.

Everyone grimaces at the empty note in his voice this time. But fuck, Tucker can't bring himself to pretend to be okay with how the dice fell, not after trying so hard to make this week special. Just because it isn't anybody's fault doesn't mean he can't be upset.

Washington nudges him in the side. "Maybe it's just a twenty four hour bug," he suggests, There's no reason to believe it's the flu. It could be anything."

"Yeah," Tucker says.

Wash says something else, but Tucker stops listening, too busy plotting out his battle strategy to focus on things that aren't important. After all, tomorrow night he's going to pick his son up and break his heart about the one thing that made him happy lately.

That's the kind of thing you have to be prepared for.

 

* * *

 

**SUNDAY**

Junior takes the news about as well as he can by promptly scrunching his face so no one can see him crying and then loudly proclaiming that he's going to make a fort.

"We're gonna make a huge fort," Tucker tells him, pushing back on his own worry to be there for his kid, "Like, _gigantic_. We'll make it cover the whole apartment so it looks like a circus. And then we're gonna pimp it out. That sound cool?"

Junior gives him a watery smile.

"Great."

Tucker does the best with what he has. They bring out the Christmas decorations and make their own little world out of bed sheets and curtains, filling the apartment with twinkling lights at every turn and playing video games while gorging themselves on candy until the sugar high hits them hard.

And then they dance. They dance like dorks without a care in the world, singing to cheesy-awesome pop songs at the top of their lungs until their landlord complains and makes them stop, and then they hold their arms out and whirl around until they're dizzy and giddy and ready to crash.

Junior falls asleep on the living room floor covered in Cheetos dust and still mumbling some Miley Cyrus song into the rug. Tucker curls up beside him and hums along.

 

* * *

 

**MONDAY**

Monday is nothing like Sunday night.

North calls in the early afternoon to confirm what they expected all along: there's no way Theta is gonna make it over today, not with his fever still raging on. Based on what the doctor says he should be up and running by the end of the week, but that's no consolation for Junior's bitter disappointment.

"I never get to do anything fun," Junior says sullenly, "I don't get to go to barbecues or have friends over, or—"

"Theta comes over all the time!"

Junior gives him a scathing look. "Not to sleep," he points out, which is actually true. Most sleepovers tend to happen on the weekends. Same thing with the barbecues. It's not like people mean to leave him out, but Junior's weekends with his mom does tend to get rid of a lot of options.

Tucker rubs a hand over his face. "Theta's gonna come over after school on your birthday," he tries, knowing full well that's not much of a consolation, "North says he can stay until nine thirty. That's plenty of time for you guys to hang out."

"That doesn't count! We're gonna have to do homework."

"Well yeah, but—"

"And you won't let us eat candy and stay up—"

"I know, jeez—"

"And we won't get to watch scary movies when it's dark 'cause he's gonna have to leave before we can—"

"Okay, I get it," Tucker says with an irritated sigh, "Your life totally sucks."

It probably wasn't the best thing he could have said, Tucker notes as he watches Junior go stomping out the room, but his patience started wearing down somewhere around hour two of Junior's rant and there's only so much he can take before he breaks.

The rest of the afternoon is just as bad. Junior's mood wavers back and forth at random intervals throughout the day. One moment he'll be clingy and sad, sitting so close he's practically in Tucker's lap, and the next he'll be irritable and petulant, muttering comments under his breath that would've gotten Tucker reamed out by his parents when he was a kid. It's hard to handle either way, and by the time the doorbell rings in the late afternoon, Tucker is so relieved to get a break that he practically runs to open the door.

"Great," Tucker says flatly, "Someone else is here to eat all my food and complain about how much he hates me. Wow, today is just awesome."

Caboose beams as if he didn't hear a word Tucker said. "Hello!" he says with a cheerful wave of the hand. Of one hand to be exact, which is only suspicious because the other is clutching the largest duffle bag that Tucker's ever seen close to his chest. "I'm here to visit Junior."

Tucker pointedly doesn't move from the doorway to let him in. "Uh huh," he says, "Yeah, that's cool. So what's in the bag? Because it better not be what I think it is or I'm going to kick your ass."

"W-What?" Caboose stammers, eyes flickering around the room over Tucker's shoulder. He shifts his weight guiltily from foot to foot and clutches his bag even closer than before. "No! No one is thinking about anything!"

Under his hand, the bag wiggles and barks.

"Caboose..."

"That was me," Caboose blurts out, ducking his head so his messy brown hair hides his face. He gives a few weak coughs to disguise the small woofs, then gives up in favor of saying the word instead. "Cough. Coughing!"

"Caboose, what did I tell you about this?" Tucker says angrily, spitting out every word like nails. "Junior's already in the worst mood ever and so am I, so if you think I'm gonna sit through another round of 'why can't I have a dog?' then you've got another thing coming."

On cue, the bag gives one last shake before a head comes poking out the top. Attached to it is the ugliest dog Tucker has ever seen. It's still a puppy, but only barely, with a bitten off ear and wonky eye. He can see a resemblance to a Husky in the shape of it's face, but its ears—well ear—is perked up like a Doberman's and it has the size and coloring of a what looks like a beagle.

The thing is so ugly it somehow goes full circle and becomes cute again. Tucker smiles and reaches out to pet him.

"Holy fuck!" Tucker yells when the damn thing snarls and tries to take off his hand. He stumbles back in shock, gaping at in shock with a hand at his neck like some old lady who's about to have vapors. "Holy fuck."

"I call him Freckles," Caboose says proudly, "He is my new second best friend after Church. I found him in a garbage can at a garage. He was playing hide and seek from a mean man, but I found him and now we are going to be friends forever!"

Tucker keeps a wary eye on the dog who is being sneaky by trying to seem cute and normal again. "You are not bringing him in here," he says firmly, "I mean it. He's staying the hell away from Junior. And me, cause fuck that, I'm not getting bit either."

Caboose's face falls when he realizes Tucker means it. "Oh. Oh, that? That was...Freckles was just playing around. He would never bite anyone, would you Freckles?"

Freckles pants and wiggles happily at the sound of his name.

Tucker frowns. "Yeah, I'm not buying it," he informs Caboose and continues to stand his ground even when Freckles ups the cuteness. "Why did you even bring him here, anyway? You know how I feel about Junior and dogs."

"I know," Caboose says earnestly, "But I was thinking—"

Well, this is gonna be good.

"At first, I was really sad because Church doesn't live with me or hang out with me, but then I met Freckles and I wasn't sad anymore! So I thought that if Junior was sad because he didn't have friends, then I could share one of mine with him. And then he won't ever be sad again!"

Tucker frowns. “Well, shit.”

Freckles yips again, loud enough this time for the sound to travel down the halls and cause a door to creak open within seconds of the cry. Moments later, they hear feet padding down the halls, and Tucker turns in time to see Junior peeking out from the edge of the wall, only his face and fuzzy brown curls in sight.

"Is that a puppy?" Junior blurts out, eyes going wide. He leaps forward before Tucker can stop him, diving across the room with arms outstretched and getting one lone hand on Freckle's head before Tucker's reflexes take over and snatches him up.

Junior squirms in his arms while Tucker's brain tries to remind his heart that it needs to keep beating. "Dad, Dad," Junior whines, feet kicking lightly at Tucker's knees, "Let me down. I'm not a little kid."

Tucker has to swallow hard around the terrified lump in his throat. "I know," he chokes out. His hands are still buried in Junior's hair. He can't seem to get them to let go.

"Dad, come on, I wanna see the puppy!"

Caboose beams at Junior. "I knew you two would get along," he says happily. He does a little dance of excitement. "Oh boy, this is going to be the best thing ever! Now we can all play together and take walks together and—"

"No fucking way," Tucker bites out, "That thing almost bit me a minute ago." At that, Junior stops fighting and cranes his neck around instead. "I told you, I'm not letting it near him."

Junior doesn't look like he's sure he believes it, but is willing to play along for now. "He doesn't look mean," he points out, peering at Freckles with a doubtful expression.

"Yeah and Tex doesn't look like she breaks heads for a living. What's your point?"

"Freckles is not like Tex. He would never break heads," Caboose says indignantly, "And he is not a mean dog. He is a good dog who only eats kibble and friendship and love!" The fuck? "He would never eat anyone! Right, Freckles?"

The bag thumps in an even rhythm to the sound of Freckles' tail wagging inside. He gives a big doggie grin of agreement and barks again, a high pitched sound that makes him seem innocent.

" _Dad,_ " Junior says again.

"No."

Caboose huffs impatiently. "Tucker, you are just...you are being so dumb right now," he says with a scowl, "Freckles was not trying to hurt you. He only did that because you scared him."

"I scared _him!?_ " Tucker exclaims, "He almost took off a finger and now you're trying to act like it's my fault?"

"Some dogs get scared really easily," Junior informs him, "That's why Ms. Pinarro says we shouldn't go up to ones we don't know. It's 'cause they might get scared and bite us."

Tucker snorts. "Yeah, great job listening to your teacher earlier."

Junior scowls and tries to wiggle out of Tucker's arms once more, "Let me go," he demands, "I won't try to pet him again."

Tucker mutters a curse under his breath. He doesn't want to, but Junior really is getting way too old for this and he weighs way more than Tucker remembered. Reluctantly, he lets Junior slide to the ground, but keeps one hand on his shoulder just in case he has to pull him away again.

Junior keeps to his word and keeps himself close, but practically brims with the desire to leap forward and throw his arms around the dog. "Is he still scared?" he asks anxiously, "Did he calm down?"

Caboose tests Tucker's patience by placing the bag on the floor and letting the puppy crawl out. To his surprise, it doesn't lunge or anything, but sits calmly by Cabooses side as if he already received a command.

"See? Freckles is a good dog!"

"Uh huh," Tucker says. He looks down when he feels a tug on the end of his shirt and sees Junior gazing up at him with hopeful eyes and an expression on his face that's more familiar than Tucker has seen all day.

"Please can I pet him?" Juniors asks, letting his palm slide into Tucker's own. "I don't think he's scared anymore."

Tucker can't remember the last time Junior let him hold his hand. It must have been been years...or maybe it just feels that way. Tucker feels a burst of warmth hit him hard in the chest. He's pretty sure he's being played, but he's also pretty sure it's working.

"I don't know," Tucker says doubtfully. Freckles looked pretty normal before he tried to attack Tucker too. It could be as big of an act as Junior's sudden return to old ways. "Uh, maybe I can try first?"

The whole atmosphere brightens up. Caboose yells his excitement, which makes Freckles howl his own, and Junior throws his arms in the air in an expression of absolute joy.

"Oh, boy!" Caboose shouts, "This is going to be the best day ever!"

Tucker definitely has his doubts.

 

* * *

 

Not only does Freckles not bite Tucker, but he manages to stay on his best behavior for the entire visit. There are no snaps, snarls, nips or bites, and though he once tries to leap at Junior, it's only in order to cover him in slobbery dog kisses of love.

Junior is ecstatic. His mood soars completely, overwhelming in the sudden change, like one stupid earless dog is enough to make him forget everything that was making him miserable before. Even the lack of Theta seems far from his mind.

Tucker nudges Caboose in the side as they're finishing up dinner. "Hey," he murmurs so no one else can hear, "How long do you think you can stay?"

"Why are we whispering?" Caboose says loudly, catching the attention of Junior and the dog. They look up from where they're playing with a knotted piece of rope, Junior immediately squinting in suspicion. Also known as the last fucking thing that Tucker wanted.

He sighs from a place deep within his chest. "I just want you to know that I fucking hate you," Tucker tells Caboose for the hundredth time. He's more tired than he is irritated by it, exhausted from everything failing before it has time to start. He can only imagine how Junior feels.

But of course it can always get so much worse.

"We're going to see a movie with Corporal Creampuff and the yellow lady tonight," Caboose says enthusiastically, continuing on as if he didn't hear Tucker's confession, "It is going to be so much fun! Freckles loves popcorn!"

Tucker puts his head in his hands. He knows it's coming but he doesn't want to see it happening. He doesn't want to see those brown eyes go sad once more as Junior makes himself brave enough to ask—

"When are you going to leave?"

Hearing his voice is bad enough. It's wobbly and tragic, already filled with oncoming tears despite desperately trying to be strong. Tucker opens his eyes. If his kid can be strong enough to face this, then Tucker has to be as well.

Tucker spots the exact moment that Caboose realizes what's going on. His face falls into a worried crumble, hands coming up to fidget with the leftover crust from his pizza. "We are going to leave...um. Hmm. Well you see..."

"Just give a time, Caboose," Tucker says wearily.

"Okay. Now?"

"Oh," Junior echoes. He silently plays with the frayed edges of the rope, twisting it in his fingers over and over again, not even smiling when Freckles nudges him and tries to steal it from his hands. "Can I go to my room?"

Tucker sighs. "Yeah, Junior, you can do what you want."

Caboose decides to let himself out.

 

* * *

 

**TUESDAY**

Standing outside the bedroom of a screaming child isn't exactly how he expected his night to go.

"What the fuck _happened!?_ " Tucker asks.

Sheila gives him a worried frown, "I was unable to understand what he was saying," she tells him, "And I am afraid that he did not take it very well. He grew quite distraught."

Weird. Junior's always been pretty patient when it comes to things like that. Well, not always, not when he was really little, but age and time have made it so that he acts out less and less. Even the failed sleepover shouldn't have had him acting like this.

They hear the loud thump of something being thrown at a door. Together, they wince, unconsciously taking a step back. "Great," Tucker mutters, "A temper tantrum. How long has _that_ been going on?"

"Not too long," she admits, hesitating before speaking again, "I believe he only started throwing things when Theodore called and could not understand him either."

Tucker swears. Yeah, that'd do it alright.

He thinks longingly of the dinner waiting for him in the microwave courtesy of Sheila. He didn't eat lunch today; he skipped in order to get some headway on projects due this week so that he could leave early for Junior's birthday. He wishes this whole thing could be put off for like fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, nothing is ever that fair or easy.

"Thanks for everything, Sheila," he says with a sigh, "I can handle it from here."

"Should I say goodbye?"

Tucker shakes his head. "Nah, that might piss him off more," he says airily, "And then he's gonna have to mow lawns for the rest of the year just to pay me back for all the shit he broke." Though hopefully Junior was just throwing around his sneakers and stuff like that. "It's cool, we'll be okay. I know how to handle him."

He waits for the front door to shut before yelling at the top of _his_ lungs.

“Junior! Junior!”

The screaming stops. There's another thump, but farther away this time. It's close enough to giving in for Tucker's purposes. At the very least, the upstairs neighbor won't start threatening to call the landlord again.

"You know, I'm pretty sure Theta's brain was boiled from his fever, dude. I bet he'd have trouble understanding anybody," Tucker offers, "And, I mean—Sheila only just learned English. So I wouldn't put it all on you.”

Everything goes still on the other side of the door. He waits as Junior considers the likelihood of that being true; he wonders if it even matters that it isn't. Plausible deniability, isn't that how it goes? After a minute the door slowly creaks open. Junior stands there with a red face and red eyes, staring up at Tucker like he's the only source of hope in the universe.

Tucker smiles down at him. "Fevers mess people's shit up sometimes," he tells Junior, "Like one time I thought I was a kangaroo." Junior's eyes widen. "Yeah. My mom caught me hopping around in my aunt's garden in nothing but my underwear. I didn't live that down for years."

Slowly, Junior inches out.

He lets Tucker lead him into the living room. They sit together on the couch, not talking, but in a comfortable way. "So," he says after a minute or two, "You gonna tell me why you're freaking out, or am I gonna have to guess? 'Cause I know this isn't just about Sheila."

Junior takes his time answering—not on purpose, but because he has to, because his mouth physically has trouble making thoughts into speech—and when he does it's a garbled mess that even Tucker is struggling to understand completely.

"Ms. Pinnaro made you read out loud," Tucker repeats, checking with him to make sure he got it right. Junior nods. "What was the next part?" A flicker of irritation crosses Junior's face. He says it again. Tucker winces. "One more time?"

Junior makes a wordless noise of pure rage.

Okay, shit, time for something new.

Tucker kneels down next to Junior until they're about the same height. "Hey, I know you probably don't feel like doing this right now, dude, but I think we should do some of your exercises now."

There's no saying if it will work or not, but it's at least worth a shot. Plus, doing some basic exercises might calm Junior down enough that he can focus on sounding out the words. If he stays stressed out and angry, that'll never happen.

"Okay, uh, let's start off with something easy,” Tucker says. He makes sure to speak the words as slowly and as clearly as he can, every vowel and consonant enunciated in order for Junior to mimic him. “Say, ‘Ted wore red.'"

"Tehwore reh," Junior says immediately. He frowns, irritation back on his face. He tries again, slower this time, carefully pronouncing each word. "Teh. Wore. Reh. Ted. Wore. Red. Tedwore red."

"Almost there," Tucker reassures him, "You just need to get the spacing right."

Junior takes a deep breath. "Ted wore reh. Ted—Ted wore red."

"Fucking _awesome_ ," Tucker bursts out, causing a startled smile to cross Junior's face. It disappears quickly, but that's okay. It's the first one he's seen since Freckles left. "You're doing great."

Junior ducks his head. "Di'nt in class," he says moodily, "Messup."

It's not perfect, but it's better than before. Hell, at least he's understandable this time—and seriously, if Tucker was having trouble understanding then it had to be bad. He's been dealing with this for six years.

Tucker pats his back in sympathy. "Were the kids in your class assholes about it?"

Junior scowls. " _Yeah_."

"Sucks, dude."

"They may'fun of me," Junior continues, getting agitated at the memory. He fidgets and squirms around on the cushion, drawing his knees up and then stretching them out again, "Anthen I ask Joneeto cometo my paree, buhhe laugh ancallme special eh."

"They made fun of you," Tucker says slowly, pushing back on the rage for now, "And then you asked...Johnny?" He doesn't know who that is, but he already hates him. "To come to your party, but he laughed and called you special—seriously, dude? That Johnny guy sounds like a dick. Why’d you want him to come to your party anyway?”

Junior shrugs.

Either the kid is popular or Junior literally just asked a random person. It’s hard to tell which, but Junior has always been weirdly practical when it comes to manipulating people, so he kind of bets it’s the former. If there was a way to get a lot of friends by only having to deal with one person, going for the popular is definitely the way to go. Too bad it didn’t work.

Tucker sighs. “It sounds like you had the worst day ever.”

Junior nods glumly.

"Do you want me to call Doc?"

Junior tilts his head, considering it. He always wants to talk to Doc when he’s sad about something. It’s been like that since Junior was three, Doc being one of the few people on the planet who never seems to have trouble understanding him. That’s why Tucker’s so surprised when Junior shakes his head and burrows into Tucker’s side, throwing one arm around Tucker’s waist in a hug.

"Oh," Tucker says, blinking hard, "Want me to turn on the tv?"

Junior nods.

He doesn't really care what they watch, so he picks random on the remote and winds up turning to some weird documentary on giant squids. It’s not too bad once you get into it, and the soothing voice of the narrator goes a long way to keeping Junior calm.

Eventually, it lulls them both to sleep.

 

* * *

 

**WEDNESDAY**

Tucker wishes he had another squid documentary, because Junior looks like he wants to cry.

"Junior, c'mon, don't—you know I can't take off work. I don't have any days left and my boss has been in a shitty mood lately, and—"

"It's okay, Dad," Junior says gravely, "I can go."

More than anything, Tucker wishes that he was being played. It would make it so much easier to drive off and leave Junior behind for the day. Unfortunately, that's not the case and it's all because his kid has to deal with bullshit that full grown adults would have a bitchfit over.

"Alright. Alright, good. Want me to walk in with you?"

Junior makes a face, and okay, Tucker can see his point. That's not gonna help his reputation at all. Which means the only way he had left of doing something for Junior has just fallen apart in his hands. Tucker feels useless in a way he hasn't felt since Junior was a baby.

"Yeah, I get it," he says, suddenly tired with everything. He and Junior sigh at the same time, their bodies a mirror to each other, each tilting against their window to rest their head against the glass. He can't help but smile when their eyes meet. Neither can Junior.

A loud bell rings throughout the campus.

Junior's shoulders slump. "I'm gonna be late."

Tucker nudges him teasingly. "Hey, maybe it'll make you look like a rebel," he says, waggling his eyes suggestively, "Chicks love rebels." He pauses and shifts. "And uh, guys too, I guess. If you're into that kind of thing."

Junior's nose scrunches up. "What kind of thing?"

"Dudes," he explains, "You know, like Doc or—nevermind, we can talk about this later. There's being a rebel and then there's getting me in trouble with your teacher again." Her disapproving face is the worst. Like a librarian's, but not the sexy kind. "And if you need to leave, I'll make Church come get you or something."

"Promise?" Junior asks.

Tucker crosses his heart and feels extremely stupid doing it. It works, though, because Junior climbs out of the car and walks toward the building without looking like he's going off to greet the firing squad.

Tucker really hopes that today doesn't suck.

 

* * *

 

Tucker's stomach is in knots for the rest of the day. It makes him jittery and nervous, constantly checking his phone for a text that never comes, and he has to keep telling himself that everything will be alright or he'll do something stupid like drive over to the school to check for himself.

And it's all because of what happens tomorrow. Junior's birthday. The only big day that Junior has left. Tucker doesn't know what he'll do if Junior is still miserable by then, and by the time lunch rolls around, everyone at his office knows he's upset.

Or something.

"Simmons told me that Jensen told _him_ that everyone in human resources thinks you're a tweaker now," Donut says disapprovingly, all crossed arms and pursed lips. "Think about your son, Tucker. Would he want you to be a junkie? Just say no. Just. Say. No.”

"What the fuck," Tucker demands, "I spend one day freaking out about my kid and suddenly everyone thinks I'm on drugs? That's racist."

"Don't you try to change the subject on me, Mister! I'm too smart to fall for any of your druggie tricks. And frankly, Tucker, I think trying to use Junior as an excuse is just downright—"

"He's still upset because he thinks he's getting left out, he's getting bullied at school, he's lonely because his only friend has been sick, and if Theta doesn't get better by tomorrow then no one is going to be at his birthday party. And now I'm waiting to see if he needs me to come get him."

Donut falls silent.

"Yeah," Tucker snaps, "So everyone can mind their own fucking business."

It comes out louder than he means it to and winds up attracting the attention of people nearby—nosy assholes who don't have the common sense to pretend like they weren't blatantly eavesdropping on his conversation.

"Sorry, Tucker! We were just trying to figure out where you score your drugs, but—"

"Shut the fuck up, Palomo!"

Tucker's phone chiming echoes in the half-empty office. Everyone looks like they're holding their breath. Donut's the only one who's close to Junior, but most of others have met him before at those stupid "non-mandatory" company picnics. They wouldn't want him to be sad either.

Tucker glances down. He has one new message.

_Sorry, Tucker. Doctor says bed rest for the next three days._

He doesn't know when he closed his eyes, but when he opens them again everyone is looking at him with sympathy. "Everything's cool," Tucker blurts out, "I'm just going to lunch."

He leaves before anyone points out the sandwich on his desk.

 

* * *

 

All he can think about is how he’s going to break the news to Junior.

It weighs at him for the rest of the day. It's bad enough that even the gossip-freaks don't want to intrude, though Simmons tells him it's because someone told them that bullies put Junior in the hospital.

Tucker picks his mouse up just so he can slam it down. "What the fuck is wrong with people?" he demands, "How the fuck did they get that from what I said?"

"They're thinking about setting up a fund for you."

Huh. Okay, maybe he'll let them talk a little bit more. It would serve them right if he took all their money. Maybe it would teach them to stop jumping to conclusions all the time. Or at the very least, teach them that Tucker means what he fucking says when he wants people to stay out of his business.

And there goes the anger again.

It's better than the sadness by far; it gets him through meetings and piles of paperwork, it gets him through the drive to the gym, and it gets him through the first eight minutes of "leg day" without so much as a complaint.

Washington stops him less than halfway through his second set. "I'm beginning to think you're sick," he tries to joke, sounding a little more worried than he should if he really wants to pull it off, "That's the third time you let a sarcastic response pass you by."

"Figured you'd be happy about that," Tucker says neutrally.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I am," Washington tells him, "But if you're feeling sick you need to tell me. You could make yourself worse if you're not careful."

"I'm not sick! I'm just—"

The words stall in his mouth and make him choke, forcing him to swallow hard against the lump. All he can think about is _Junior, Junior, Junior_ , only eight years old and already discovering that the world sucks and will swallow you whole.

"Tucker?"

Washington stares at him in concern, all the empathy and determination he feels shining through his eyes and making Tucker feel better than he has in days. It’s easy to feel okay when someone is looking at him like that. Like somehow, the two of them will fix everything that's wrong.

Air enters his lungs. Tucker inhales as deeply as he can, holding the breath until his chest aches and vision starts to spot; and then, while the pressure still lingers in his lungs, he lets it out—not slowly, not with a tiny exhalation, but all at once in a gust of air and burst of sound.

"I have to go," Tucker says in a voice he doesn't recognize, too rough and emotional for it to be his own, "I think I need to go get my kid a dog."

“It’s a little late,” Washington tells him, “But I think I know just the place.”

 

 


	7. Recompense

 

Tucker finally feels a little more like himself by the time the building is in sight.

“So do you know someone there or are we gonna break in or what?” he asks as he trots along at Washington’s side. "Because I'm cool with it, but I need to know whether or not to ask Church to give me an alibi."

Washington rolls his eyes. "We're not going to break in," he says, "I know one of the guys who runs the night shift. He said he'd leave the door open for us."

"Know one of the guys?" Tucker asks, "Or _know_ one of the guys?" He wiggles his eyebrows and receives a dirty look, but there's a tell-tale shimmer of red that's clear even in the low lighting, like Washington's blushes are too bright for the dark to combat.

"He'll let us in," Wash repeats stubbornly, "You don't have to worry."

"I'm not worried," Tucker tells him.

Washington looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm not," he insists, which is completely true. He stopped being worried the moment Wash told him he had an idea. Everything in him just relaxed completely, muscles softening all at once and mind going clear for the first time in days. Even if it doesn't work out, it feels good just to have a plan. "I'm not! Do I _look_ like I'm freaking out anymore?"

"No," Wash says with some surprise, "You don't."

"That's right!" Tucker says. He nudges Washington in the side, grinning at him so widely his cheeks start to hurt. "I wanted to get my kid a dog and you're about to get me one. What the fuck do I have to worry about?"

Washington smiles ruefully. "Nothing, I suppose."

"Exactly."

Wash holds the door open for him and together they make their way inside. It's weird how empty it feels indoors, how echoey and alone and far too dim; even the sound of far-off barking doesn't put a dent in the feeling that they are somewhere they shouldn't be.

Wash nudges him out of his uneasy stance in front of the door. "The dog room is that way," he says, pointing over to their left where double doors lead to Junior's present, "We should be able to find something there for you and your son."

"Junior," Tucker corrects, "That's what we call him."

"Alright," Wash agrees, "Junior, then. We should be able to find something for him. Do you know what kind of—"

"Davey!"

Washington's jaw slams shut at the sound. He winces a bit, glancing at Tucker, then turns to face the bundle of energy coming their way in the form of a 6’5” linebacker. "Davey," the guy repeats eagerly, "I'm glad you made it."

"I'm the one who called you," Wash reminds him. He smiles awkwardly at the dude and then turns it on Tucker, the slight narrowing of his eyes wordlessly warning him not to start.

"Oh, right," the guy says, giving a fluttery laugh that reminds him of Donut, "Well, I'm glad I can do you and your friend a favor!" He turns to Tucker and beams at him. "I hear your son needs to get himself a dog."

"Yup," Tucker agrees, biting back his smirk, " _Davey_ said he could get me in here after hours." He rocks back on the balls of his feet and makes a point of not looking Wash's way. If he does, he'll break, and this whole thing will be over. "Thanks for letting him."

"No problem! It's really boring after hours, so I don't really—"

"Tom," Wash interrupts rudely, "I'm sorry, but Tucker has to be home soon, so we really need to do this as fast as possible. Don't we, Tucker?"

Wash looks at him with desperation hidden in his eyes. For a second Tucker is honestly tempted to tell the truth just to fuck with him a little more. But fuck that, bros before hoes trumps just about everything.

Tucker smiles blandly back at Tom. "Yeah, the kid's gotta eat, y'know?" he says, idly reaching out to grab a hold of Wash's arm. He begins herding them in the direction Wash pointed earlier, causing Tom to scramble to follow.

"I could help—"

"Nah, it's cool," Tucker says, "Wash knows his way around, right?"

"Right," Wash says automatically.

"But—"

"Yeah, see ya, Tom!" Tucker replies, walking them through the double doors while Tom stands there staring, mouth still open in protest. Once on the other side, he drops Wash's arm, turning to give him an amazed look. "Dude, you called in a favor from the booty call you're avoiding just for me?"

"He's not a booty call," Washington grumbles.

"Holy shit, your _ex_?" Tucker says, genuinely flattered by the news, "That's above and beyond."

Washington rolls his eyes. "He's not my ex, either," he explains, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure they're really alone, "We went on a couple of dates a few months ago, that's it. We still get along just fine."

Tucker scoffs. "Riiight," he says, because if Wash really thinks that Tucker'll buy that excuse then he's got another thing coming, "And that's why you practically tried to run out of here, huh? Because things are so cool between you?"

"We are," Wash says quickly, "I just..."

He waits, but Washington doesn't say anything more. "Just what?" Tucker asks, "Flirted with the server during the date? Had awful sex? Gave him an STD?"

"No! We just weren't...compatible, I guess. He disagrees."

Tucker blinks hard. "Oh," he says, and then: "Well, fuck. I could've told you that." He shakes his head at the sheer obliviousness of accepting that date. Like yeah, if Wash was only looking for a good time that would've been fine. But _dating_? No way in hell.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Tucker says, "He just doesn't really seem your type."

Wash side eyes him. "And what do you think my type is, exactly?"

"I don't know, someone who..."

Tucker pauses. He wants to say someone who drives Wash to distraction. Someone who will fight with him and make him have fun. But Wash dated Doc and Doc isn't really that kind of guy. He wouldn't force anyone out of their comfort zone or tell them where to shove it. So maybe Tucker has no clue about Wash's type after all.

"I don't know," Tucker says again.

"Then why don't we move on from my social life and find you a dog?"

The building is a thousand times less creepy now than it was when he first stepped inside. Maybe it's because of that whole thing with Tom, but Tucker thinks it's because of Wash. Wash, who guides them through the building as though he's walked the path a thousand times. Wash, who seems to know the place by heart.

"I used to volunteer here a lot when I first moved here," Wash explains when Tucker asks. Then, before he can ask if his absence has anything to do with Tom, Washington continues, saying, "I still do when I have the time."

Tucker turns around and starts walking backward, all the while giving Wash a weird look. "Wait a sec," he says suspiciously, "I thought you volunteered at the community center."

Wash says, giving Tucker a weird look of his own. "I'm not sure why you think that matters," he replies, "But yes, I volunteered there too. Why, do you think people can only volunteer at one place at any given time?"

Tucker says nothing. In the silence he hears the sound of barking—the same barking as before, steadily growing louder the closer they get. It doesn't sound nearly as high as it did from a distance.

Washington pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure how to respond to that."

"Dude, I don't know how fucking volunteering works," Tucker says defensively, "I mean, Junior made me try it last year, but we got kicked out of the shelter before we could do anything."

Wash opens his mouth.

"You don't want to know," Tucker tells him.

"I guess I'll have to take your word for it," Washington says. His voice is dry as hell and a little judgmental, but he keeps himself from asking any more questions and opts to continue the tour instead. "Do you have any idea what kind of dog you're looking for?"

"I don't know, small?" Tucker guesses, fully expecting Washington to roll his eyes at the answer and admonish him for not knowing more about dogs. "Our apartment's too small to have something really big in it. Heh. Except for the obvious—bow chicka bow wow!"

Washington pointedly ignores the added commentary. "That's a good start," he says unexpectedly, "It definitely helps narrow things down a bit."

"Oh," Tucker says, feeling weirdly proud of himself for such a little thing. After all, it's not as if it even counts as praise—but hey, after a week of feeling like the dumbest, most useless person on the planet, he bets everyone's standards would be a little low.

Tucker inches closer and basks in the feeling.

Washington opens the door on a room with dozens upon dozens of cages. Less than a quarter of them are filled, but the ones that aren't empty are filled with dogs of all shapes and sizes, one of them nearly as big as Junior himself.

Some dogs don't bat an eye when they walk in, but most of the others jump to their feet in either excitement or alarm, the smaller ones standing on their hindquarters, tails moving frantically as he and Wash walk by.

And still that nonstop barking from before continues.

"Does Junior prefer dogs that are active or—"

He cuts Wash off with an aggravated sigh, pivoting on his heels to stare down the long row to where a lone dog sits surrounded by empty cages. "Dude," Tucker says irritably, "Does that thing ever stop?"

"It's not a thing, it's a dog," Washington says, the frown he's no doubt giving Tucker clear and heavy in his voice. But Tucker refuses to feel bad about such a stupid thing, even if he does shrug an apology as he turns back around to face him.

"It's an _annoying_ dog," Tucker mutters.

"Andy's just a little...vocal," Wash says diplomatically. He sticks his fingers in a nearby cage, letting the dog attack it with his tongue. "Sometimes animals are. It's not always fun and games with them. If you're going to be a pet owner you should probably learn that."

"I'm not gonna be a pet owner, my kid is," he insists.

Washington gives him a very flat, very pointed look. And okay, now that he thinks about it, Wash is probably right. No matter how responsible Junior is, he still won't be able to take it for walks on his own or pay for the vet. Tucker's going to have to do most of the work.

"Hey, does this place have guinea pigs or fish?" Tucker jokes weakly, feet instinctively backing away from the cages, "Anything Junior can take care of on his own? Because let me tell you, taking care of a kid is hard enough."

"Not many of those abandoned on the street," Wash says drily.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

And still that incessant barking continues. They listen to it in silence for awhile, letting it echo through the room as the two of them stare at each other.

"I'm not surprised that he hasn't been adopted yet," Washington admits. "No one wants a dog that barks at all hours of the night. Especially people who live close to neighbors who might complain."

Tucker snorts. "You mean people like _me_?"

"No one's saying you have to get Andy," Wash points out. He reaches out a hand and waves to the entirety of the room. "There are plenty of dogs here that aren't nearly as loud. Take Phyllis for example."

Tucker looks over to where he's pointing and promptly chokes on air. It's a big dog—no, _huge_ —the size of a small house: a gigantic Saint Bernard that looks like it could be Freckles' mother. "What the fuck is this, Clifford the Big Red Dog? I thought I told you I wanted something _small_."

"I said _for example_ ," Wash says in exasperation, "Don't be difficult."

Phyllis' woof sounds like she's reprimanding him.

"I already have a person whose job it is to lecture me," Tucker tells her bitchily, pointedly ignoring the way it causes Wash's lips to curl up at the edges, "I don't need another. That position is filled."

Washington looks at him the way people look at little kids: fondly and more than a little convinced of their own superiority. "You realize she doesn't understand a word you're saying, right?"

"You don't know that," Tucker shoots back.

"No, I don't. But that doesn't mean you're not being ridiculous."

Tucker sticks his tongue out to show him just how ridiculous he can be. Washington doesn't respond, but even though he rolls his eyes he looks like he's smiling underneath. Tucker counts that as a win.

"So what about the other dogs?" Tucker asks, "Any of them good for Junior?"

"Vic's not bad," Wash replies after some thought. He taps his finger against his chin, clearly thinking it out. "He's a little talkative, but not like Andy. And he's a lapdog, so you don't have to worry about size."

Tucker smirks. "Nah, I never have to worry about—"

"Don't finish that sentence unless you want Tom to finish this tour."

"One of these days, I'll teach you to lighten up," Tucker promises. He leans against an empty cage and crosses his arms, doing his absolute best to look cool. "And then you'll think all of my jokes are awesome."

"I'm glad you can finally admit that there's no reason for me to find them funny now," Washington says sardonically.

Almost against his will, Tucker is amused. "Yeah, okay, whatever," he says, "So anyway, how come you know so much about this stuff? I thought you stopped volunteering here as much as you used to."

"I did, but I still foster animals here a lot," Washington explains, "Ones that are too old or too young or need more attention than most people are prepared to give a new pet. It gives the shelter more time to find the animals a new home."

"What if they can't find a new home?"

Washington goes silent.

"Oh," Tucker says.

That sucks—that sucks a _lot_ , and he promises himself that he'll never let Junior or Caboose find out about that. Not unless he wants to be responsible for the two of them begging everyone to adopt every animal they can. It just isn't worth the trouble.

Tucker clears his throat. "So which one's Vic?"

Washington points him to the cage closest to the door. There sits a rat-faced mutt of a dog so bored that it's chewing on its own bowl for something to do. Its ears twitch when Tucker draws near, but aside from that there's no reaction. All it does is give a tiny bark when he stands in front of the cage.

"Can I...fuck, I don't know, pet him I guess?" Tucker asks as he peers through the cage, "I want to see if he's cool or not." He glances at Wash to see if it's okay, hand already moving toward the latch, only relaxing when Washington nods his consent.

"It should be fine. They allow it during the daylight hours, after all."

"Awesome," Tucker says, but he hesitates before opening the door, some little voice in the back of his head reminding him that dogs sometimes get scared. "He's not gonna freak out or anything if I try to pet him, is he?"

Wash looks up from where he's playing with Phyllis through the bars. "Don't worry," he says reassuringly, "The only animals they put on the floor are the ones that are good with humans. Otherwise that opens them up to lawsuits."

Tucker nods. Finally, he opens the gate, reaching inside and pulling Vic out onto the floor. He expects...he doesn't know what he expects, but it isn't for the dog to bark once and then settle down on the shelter floor.

Tucker tries petting him but barely gets acknowledged. He tries playing with it and only gets ignored. He grabs a chew toy from the cage and throws it as hard as hard as he can to the opposite wall, but Vic just pants and looks at him askance.

It's either the most chill animal that Tucker's ever seen in his life or it's been recently tranquilized. Either way it's a prime example of the worst dog ever to get a kid.

Tucker sighs. "This isn't gonna fucking work."

Wash comes over to rest a hand upon his shoulder. "There are other small dogs here today," he says in a voice filled with sympathy. "I'm sure one of them will work out just fine."

But they don't. With Vic and Andy out of the running, there's only two other small dogs that haven't been adopted. One of them literally pees in excitement the second the two of them look her way and another—well, based on the way he had to dodge to avoid another piss related accident, the other dog seems to hate him on sight.

"Great," he grumbles, "I have to choose between the one that will try to piss on me on purpose or the one that will piss on me by accident. I already love this decision."

"You don't have to get a dog now," Wash begins, "You and Junior could wait awhile and see if anything has shown up in a couple of weeks—"

"No," Tucker says harshly, "It has to be _this_ week. It has to be today."

Wash quiets.

Tucker swallows hard. "Sorry, it's just...you don't know what it's been like," he says, voice cracking with emotion he doesn't want anybody to hear, "It's been such a fucking suck-ass week. Junior _needs_ this, okay?"

 _I_ need this, he wants to say.

Washington seems to waver on the edge of saying something or reaching out again. "You know," he says after a few moments have passed, "If you aren't set on getting a dog, there are other animals that might suit your situation better."

* * *

  
"Cats?" Tucker says in surprise.

"They're small enough to be good for apartment living while also being something your son can feasibly take care of on his own," Washington points out, "All he has to do is clean its litter box and make sure it has enough food and water. No walking necessary."

That sounds way easier than having a dog.

"I'm in," Tucker says immediately.

"I thought you would be," Washington says, giving him such a knowing look that it makes him want to get a dog just to be contrary. Tucker frowns, but Wash just smiles back at him. "Why don't you walk around and see if there's any you like?”

Tucker narrows his eyes. "Yeah, cool."

Slowly, he walks around the room in search of the perfect pet, poking his fingers into cages and teasing whenever he stops for a couple of seconds. A few nip or paw at him, but even the few scratches he gets aren't bad enough to actually break skin. He won't have to worry about them with Junior.

Unfortunately, that’s the only nice thing that Tucker can say about them. It's not like with Vic, not at all, but even the most mischievous ones are boring as hell, all of them missing the asshole factor that you need to survive in Tucker’s family. He can’t get a pet that doesn’t have it, which means he might not get a pet at all.

Almost on cue, a loud yowl splits through the air.

It takes him awhile to figure out where it’s coming from. When he finally finds it, it's in the most unlikely of places: a large cage filled with older kittens that mew and play wildly, all of them making such a racket that he's surprised he didn't hear them earlier.

Tucker crouches in front of it curiously. There's a little white ball of fluff crouching in the corner, keeping itself far away from the chaos and noise. Its tail twitches balefully when it notices him watching, one tiny paw extending to threaten violence if he moves any closer. Tucker pokes his index finger through the bars and wiggles it to catch the cat's attention.

"That one's my favorite," Washington confesses. He comes up on Tucker's right-hand side and crouches next to him, smiling a little when the cat meows angrily at the sight of him. "I fostered him for awhile after the vet cleared him."

"Why'd the vet have to clear him?"

"The vet has to clear all the animals before they're ready for adoption," Washington says, "No matter how healthy they look. But this case was a little different. It was severely injured," he continues when Tucker tilts his head curiously, "Along with all of its siblings. We didn't think he'd make it."

"What happened to it?"

Washington grimaces. "Abuse from the look of it, most likely from its former owner," he admits, "Though it's not unheard of for people to attack strays for fun.”

" _Douchebags_ ," Tucker mutters under his breath. He runs his eyes over its body, checking it for any sign that it's still hurt. It _looks_ okay, but that vet could've missed something. "Haven't they ever heard of TV?"

The cat growls as if in agreement.

Washington tilts his head at that. "That growl sounded a lot more friendly than people usually get from him," he says, "I think he likes you."

Tucker scoffs.

"I fostered him for three months and all he did was was tear up my couch and attack my head when I was asleep," Wash says drily, "Trust me, he likes you."

Tucker considers that for awhile. "Do you think he'd like Junior?"

Surprisingly, Wash doesn't have to think about it for more than a second. "From what I've seen, he's much better when it comes to children than adults. He certainly was with Theta, anyway. But if you're still worried, we can always ask Tom whether or not he's child safe."

"No, I mean, do you think he'll _like_ him," Tucker says again. He shifts anxiously, hoping against hope that what he's feeling isn't audible this time. He hopes it isn't visible either. "Do you think they'll get along?"

Washington shakes his head. "There's no way of knowing that—"

Tucker stares at the ground.

"...but yes," Wash says softly, "Yes, I do."

"Oh," Tucker says. It's all he can say for a couple of minutes, the lump in his throat making it nearly impossible to breathe enough to get any air. He's grateful suddenly, so fucking grateful that he and Wash are friends. He can't imagine anyone else doing this with him.

"What," Tucker begins after a moment. He clears his throat, but doesn't look up yet. He won't until he gets himself under control. "What's his name?"

"I named him Epsilon," Wash informs him, "Not that he ever responded to it."

Tucker makes a face at the cat. "I wouldn't answer to Epsilon either," he tells it. He glances over at Washington and smirks at the affronted look on his face. "It's probably why he hates your guts."

"He doesn't hate my guts," Wash protests. To prove it, he sticks a finger between the bars of the cage near Epsilon's head, brushing it's ear for half a second before the cat rounds on him and tries to take it off.

Wash flinches back.

"Uh-huh," Tucker says, "That totally looks like someone who doesn't hate your guts to me."

"Shut up."

"Seriously, dude. I can tell the two of you are best friends."

"You do realize that I can always make you walk back to the gym," Washington points out, "It's about five miles from here, isn't it? I think you can manage that. After all, our appointments have been going so well lately."

Tucker laughs. "You're kidding, right?

Washington doesn't bat an eye.

The smile disappears off Tucker's face as fast as it arrived. "You're _kidding_ , right?" Tucker asks again, alarm flickering in the back of his mind the longer Wash remains silent and still. "Wash? Tell me that was a joke."

Wash smirks. “Yes, it was."

Tucker gapes for a good long while, relief and confusion flooding through him. "Holy shit," he says, "I think I liked you better when you didn't have sense of humor."

"I think I liked you better when you were being quiet," Wash returns.

He smirks back at Wash, then looks to Epsilon. "Can you believe this asshole?" he asks the cat, "You better be grateful you're going home with me instead of with him again." Epsilon yowls again, but Tucker chooses to take that as a confirmation instead of the insult it probably is.

"So you've made up your mind?" Wash asks, sounding vaguely surprised.

Tucker looks at the cat. The cat looks back at him. Then, moving as slowly as he can, Tucker unlatches the door under Epsilon's hostile gaze. His hand is only inches away from those sharp-ass teeth when Epsilon pounces, throwing himself at Tucker's arms with his claws outstretched.

Tucker recoils, but it's already too late. The cat digs its tiny needle claws into his sleeve, using them to gain enough purchase to allow him to scramble up Tucker's shirt and onto his shoulder. There it sits, head tall and tail twitching, a slight aura of smugness surrounding him.

Wash watches in amusement. "I told you he likes you."

Tucker keeps himself as still as possible and tries his best to hide how pleased he is that it's apparently true. "Nah," he says nonchalantly, "I'm pretty sure he just likes piggyback rides."

Epsilon's tail lashes wildly, whipping around to smack him in the back of his head.

"Epsilon seems to disagree."

What can he say? The cat's got great taste.

* * *

  
The sun is setting when they leave the building, street lights already flickering on around them and lighting the shadows the sun doesn't reach. It brings a peace to the air that wasn't there before, a quiet that urges Tucker to speak.

“How long do you think I have to carry him like this?” Tucker asks while trying his best to keep his shoulders straight on the walk back to the car. It doesn’t seem all that necessary, really; Epsilon is too good at balancing to fall, his claws too deep in Tucker's shirt to ever lose purchase. He's just as steady as he would be if he were walking on solid ground.

"Just be grateful that he isn't digging his claws into your shoulder right now," Washington tells him. He keeps glancing over at them with a funny look on his face, which Tucker can only assume means he's ridiculously jealous of how well he and Epsilon are getting along.

"It's cool. He doesn't want to hurt me," Tucker brags.

"I can see that," Wash says.

One moment he’s looking at Tucker like normal, and the next he’s doing that thing again. The one where he glances away and then back again. For a second Tucker thinks...but then Epsilon jumps down and has them scrambling to catch him, so he pushes that to the back of his head for another day.

“Holy fuck!” Tucker shouts.

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” Washington says quickly. He darts after Epsilon with a burst of speed, leaping across the space between them to pluck the cat up before he can run under the car. All of this before Tucker even has time to move.

"Fuck, dude, that was fast,” Tucker says in something like awe. He carefully takes the cat from Washington and holds onto it with a firm grip, other hand already grasping for the box in Wash’s hands that Tom was nice enough to give them earlier. “I thought I was gonna have to go inside and tell Tom that I need a new cat.”

“I don’t think he would’ve given you a new one,” Wash says wryly.

“Yeaah, me either,” Tucker agrees.

And then he’d have to deal with Junior being sad forever, because there’s no freaking way the sword he got him was cool enough to cheer him up on its own. Even if it does glow and make swooshy noises and—

“Oh, man, you should see what else I got him,” Tucker says suddenly, “It’s this kickass energy sword thing that glows in the dark. It’s like—wait, hold on. Hold this.” He shoves the box in Washington’s hands without waiting for reply, dropping the cat inside as soon as Wash holds it steady and smirking a little when Epsilon gives an angry hiss.

“It’s like this big,” Tucker continues, holding his hands wide apart, “And you hold it in your hand like you’re making a fist. And then you can just—” Here he holds his hand out like he’s holding a weapon and slashes it around in mock battle. “Swish, swish! Stab! Like you’re a total fucking badass.”

Washington looks like he’s barely containing his laughter.

“Shut up!” Tucker huffs, ”It’s not weird!”

“Of course it’s not,” Washington assures him. He pauses just long enough to convince Tucker he means it, then continues, “Tell me, do the sound effects contribute anything to the experience or is that just something you like to do to amuse yourself?”

Tucker sulks and snatches the box back from Wash. “You know, I’m really beginning to see why you hate him,” he tells Epsilon, “He kind of sucks. And not in a good way.”

“And on that note, we should really get going.”

"Yeah," Tucker agrees. He gives the imaginary sword one last wave of the hand, pretending to sink it into Washington's chest. Wash bats his hand away with a smile. "I still gotta run to a store to pick up supplies for the cat and shit."

Washington nods and pulls out his keychain, pressing a button to unlock the passenger side door and then opening it so that Tucker can climb inside. “Thanks," Tucker says, speaking loud enough to be heard through the closed door, "Hey, do you think I should put him in the back seat?"

The driver's side opens and closes as Wash slips inside. "Not unless you want him causing an accident," he says as he puts the key in the ignition, "Trust me when I say he's not the type to stay still in a car and let someone drive. But maybe he'll be better with you."

Tucker puts a careful hand on Epsilon's back, holding him still. "I'm not gonna chance it," he says shortly before he remembers that he's going to have to, "Uh, not until I'm driving home anyway."

Wash hmmms as he pulls into traffic.

"But whatever, thanks for suggesting a cat anyway," he tells Washington, "Even if it can be a hassle sometimes, it still sounds way better than having to walk a dog in the middle of the winter."

Out of nowhere Washington snorts.

"What?" Tucker asks, "What was that for?"

Wash slowly shakes his head from side to side, giving Tucker the most condescending look ever. It's kinda funny. "Are you honestly suggesting that you think the weather here—" And here he stops to wave at the cacti and palm trees outside his window. "Is too cold to walk a dog in?"

"...yeah?" Tucker says.

Washington snorts again.

Tucker rolls his eyes. "Oh, let me guess, you come from fucking Canada or something," he says mockingly, "Where it's always minus fifty degrees and you have to ride polar bears to school and eat snow for dinner—"

"Snow was really more of a breakfast thing," Wash says.

Tucker huffs at that, a small sound that does nothing to disguise his amusement. He doesn't want it to anyway; he _likes_ the banter, likes the back and forth mockery that reminds him of all his other friends. It's easy to like Wash when he's like this.

"No, but seriously, where are you from?" Tucker asks, "Because it gets like sixty degrees here in the winter, and if you don't think that's cold then—"

Washington looks embarrassed for him.

"Shut up, that's cold, okay?"

"No, cold is thirty-five degrees in the freezing rain," Washington tells him pointedly. Tucker nearly starts shivering at the thought. "What you're talking about is a warm summer day."

"Shit, you really are from Canada, aren't you?"

Wash laughs. “No. Try Oregon.”

"Oregon?" Tucker repeats In surprise. The only thing he knows about there is that it's really green and it rains a lot, "I would've pegged you as coming from someplace like D.C. or someplace like that."

"Believe it or not," Washington says drily, "People's names are not always indicative of where they come from. North and South being the obvious exception."

"Still, _Oregon_? Weird. Do you miss it there?”

Washington hesitates. "I miss some things about it," he says thoughtfully, "Not the weather, but my family and friends." His voice lowers, going wistful and sad. "And the little details. Like hot chocolate when it's cold out, or trees in the autumn when the leaves start to change."

Wash laughs, looking off into the distance as they stop at a red light.

"My brothers always used to chase me around and throw me in them,” he says, “Then pounce on me and shove as many leaves as they could down my shirt.” He smiles warily. “I went back a couple of years ago and they did it again. They said it was tradition.”

For all the exasperation in his voice, there's a soft, content glow around him at the memory. In the warm light of the setting sun, it's almost visible, flickers of gold brushing over his hair and making it look like he has a halo.

Tucker averts his eyes.

It's so fucking unfair. Tucker knows he's like five different kinds of hot, but he's still never managed to make the sun his bitch before. How are people supposed to compete with that? Assholes like Wash ruin things for everyone.

"I was laughing too hard to—"

"So trees, huh?" Tucker interrupts, barely conscious of the words stumbling out of his mouth. "Sounds boring. I mean, you talk about that asshole with the cat, but seriously, didn't you guys have a television? Video games? Anything?"

"We did," Wash says.

He's sure he's rambling, but he can't stop himself, "Me and Junior actually like to do fun stuff, you know? Like going to the movies or water parks. I think if I took him to watch a bunch of leaves, he'd ask Santa to get him a new dad."

"Is that so."

"Yeah, I—" Tucker does a double take at the stiffness in Washington's voice. "Wait, what's wrong with you? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I can't imagine why," Wash says sarcastically.

Tucker frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Wash says as he rolls his eyes, "I just can't imagine why anyone would be upset at someone making fun of some of their favorite family memories."

The light changes while Tucker is still struggling to think up a response. There's nothing he really can say, he admits, because nothing about that statement was false. Not as far as he  knows, anyway. But apologizing for something like that is weird, isn't it?It's almost as bad as not acknowledging it at all.

It's a relief when they finally arrive at the gym. Tucker picks up the box with Epsilon in it and practically scrambles out of the car, pausing only briefly to say goodbye before making his way across the parking lot to his own car.

"Fuck," Tucker says as he sits in the driver's seat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Washington did something nice for him and Junior and all he could do about it is run his mouth off like a piece of shit and ruin the good night they were having. "Fuck, I am so dumb."

Epsilon stays in his box and meows his agreement.

* * *

  
By the time he gets home his bones are aching from how tight he's been holding them. Even the thought of Junior's face when he sees Epsilon isn't enough to ease them completely; all it does is put a bounce in his step that otherwise wouldn't have been there at all.

"Junior?" he calls softly when he enters the apartment.

Sheila looks up from her position in front of the television. "Good evening, Tucker," she says warmly enough. "Junior is talking to Theodore on his computer right now. Would you like me to get him for you?"

"Nah, it's cool," he replies. It's better than cool, because now Tucker can set it up the way he's been thinking about since he left the shelter. He raises his index finger to his mouth, silently asking Sheila to stay quiet, then walks over to show her what's inside the box.

"Oh!" she says in a hushed voice, "Junior will be very happy to see that."

"Yeah, he will," Tucker says with a grin. He places the box and his bags on the couch by her side. "Can you do me a favor and watch this for me? I need to get something from the closet."

Sheila nods her assent, so he walks off into the hall, tiptoeing on his way past Junior's room. From there he grabs the plastic bag filled with wrapping paper he bought for Junior's birthday, complete with the tape rattling around in the bottom.

"Okay," he tells Sheila, "You keep an eye on the cat and I'll start wrapping—"

Epsilon meows loudly when Sheila picks him up.

Tucker winces at the noise, hands already scrambling to shove the cat back in the box, but everyone knows it's far too late. The bedroom door creaks open and Junior curiously pokes his head outside.

"Hey, Junior," Tucker says weakly. He waves with the kitten still held in his hand. Epsilon twists around, unhappy with the circumstances and his position, struggling frantically to be put down. "Uh, surprise?"

"Happy early birthday!" Sheila says, clapping happily and saving the moment. Tucker is quick to repeat the congratulations as he places Epsilon on the floor and lets him wander around and rub his scent on whatever he can find.

Junior doesn't seem to understand at first. He blinks twice as if confused, staring at them and then back at the cat, over and over until Tucker is dizzy just looking at him. His feet know what to do at least, inching him closer toward the cat as though he can’t help himself. “Um,” Junior asks almost shyly, “Um, it's really mine?”

Tucker grins. “Yeah, Junior. It’s yours.”

Junior gasps, his whole face transforming in his joy as he bounces on his feet. “Dad!” he shrieks, startling Epsilon into bumping into the coffee table. He flings himself in Tucker’s arms. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I'll take of him, I swear!"

No sooner is he in Tucker's arms then he's out of them, flinging himself to the floor in front of the cat and causing Epsilon to jump a foot in the air. He gives a disgruntled little mew, first glaring at Junior accusingly, then immediately pretending it never happened in the first place.

Junior whips around to beam up at him. "Dad, look, he's a dork!"

"You bet he is," Tucker agrees. He turns his grin on Sheila, sharing his own happiness at seeing Junior filled with energy for once. It feels like years since he's seen it last, decades going by without a smile, millennia going by without a laugh.

And he owes all of it, _all_ of it to Wash.

"Hey, uh, Sheila?" Tucker begins quietly, leaning in to keep from interrupting Junior, "I kinda have to do something really quick. You can let yourself out whenever you want. Or stick around. Whatever. You know I don't care."

"Of course, Tucker," Sheila says. She glances down at Junior and Epsilon on the floor, watching Junior tease the cat with the shoelace he took out of one of his sneakers. "Then if you do not mind, I would like to help Junior play with his new cat. He seems to be enjoying himself quite a bit."

“Yeah, that’s cool,” he says absently, “I bet he’ll like that.”

He walks out of the room mechanically, past the kitchen and into the hall, wandering down it until he makes his way into the bathroom. "This is such bullshit," he tells his own reflection, "It wasn't even that big of a deal!"

But it was apparently a big deal to Wash.

"Oh fuckberries," Tucker mutters as he collapses onto the toilet lid. He pulls his phone out and stares at it glumly. "I can't believe I'm going to do this." With a sigh, he opens his messenger and taps out six little words:

_can u text me Wash's #?_

Tucker's plain church bell ringtone immediately echoes throughout the room.

"You two have gotta be fucking kidding me with this shit," Church says as soon as Tucker answers the phone. He blinks for a moment, taken aback, wondering what the fuck Church's problem is now.

"Yeah, I really don't care about your bullshit, so can you just give me his phone number now, or am I gonna have to call up Carolina?" Tucker says impatiently, "I know you have it."

"Sorry, Tucker, you're shit out of luck."

Tucker hangs up.

Seconds later the phone rings again, the familiar ringing echoing through the room as the sound bounces off of the bathroom walls. "Why do you need it?" Church asks as soon as he answers the phone.

"None of your fucking business," Tucker says with a scowl, "This isn't twenty questions, okay? It's 'tell me or stop wasting my time.'"

"Fine," Church snaps, "Have fun talking to Carolina."

This time Church hangs up the phone on him, but Tucker's like ninety-nine percent sure that's the only reason he called back in the first place, so he doesn't really care about that. The only thing he does care about is which of them is going to give in first and call back.

After thinking about it for awhile, Tucker taps out another message. Almost immediately his phone starts ringing again. This time Tucker purposely lets it ring exactly five times before picking up it, just long enough to piss Church off.

"What do you mean he got Junior a kitten!?"

"What do you think I mean?" Tucker says, "He took me to the animal shelter and helped me get a kitten so Junior wouldn't be sad all the time."

" _Why?_ "

Tucker pauses. "I don't know," he admits. It could be anything. "Because he's a good guy? Because he was tired of me moping all the time? Fuck, dude, go ask him if you're so curious about it."

"You know what, Tucker? Maybe I will."

Tucker rolls his eyes. "Yeah, or you could just give me his number like I fucking asked," he says irritably, "And I can go and ask him myself."

Church huffs. "Fine. Whatever. See if I try to help you again."

"Help me?" Tucker exclaims, "When did you—"

But Church has already hung up the phone for a second time. Tucker stares at his phone, aggrieved and annoyed, fully ready to throw it against the wall—and then he hears the buzzing that signifies he has a message.

_Don't say I never gave you anything._

Tucker is just about to press the call button when he hears a crash from the other room. "That better not be the tv," he shouts without missing a beat. Anything else can easily be replaced, but the television is still being paid off.

"Nope. Lamp!" Junior shouts back, "The cat did it, not me!"

"Of course he did," Tucker mutters, then calls back, "Don't try to pick it up!"

"Okay, I won't!" Junior says. There's a tiny pause and then Junior is shouting once again, "Sheila says she's gonna clean it!"

With that settled, Tucker sighs and goes back to staring at his phone. The distraction has given him just enough time to realize how uncomfortable this conversation could be. Like fuck, what if it gets all emotional and shit? That would suck. But it has to be done. Reluctantly, Tucker makes the call.

"Hello?" Wash says uncertainly.

Tucker's mind goes blank for a second, unable to think of how he's supposed to respond. Probably not with, 'Hey asshole!' the way he usually does with Church, but 'Hello, Tucker speaking' is way too formal for a dude he sees on a regular basis.

Wash breathes out through his nose, sounding irritated. "Hello?" he says again, "I'm going to hang up the phone if you don't—"

"This week was really shitty," Tucker blurts out.

"Excuse me?" Washington says, "Is this...Tucker, is that you?"

"Shit! Yeah, sorry. Church gave me your number. What's up?

"Nothing much," Washington says, sounding mystified, "I was just watching tv."

"Yeah, that's cool. Me too."

The conversation grinds to a dead halt. Tucker searches for something to say in the absence, but nothing comes to mind but cheap small talk and vulnerability and neither of those things are even an option. He guesses the best thing to do is what he called Wash for originally.

"Hey," Tucker says awkwardly, "I just wanted to say thanks for today. I know it was hard to take that stick out your ass for a few hours, but I really appreciate it.”

"You're welcome," Washington says drily.

Tucker runs his fingers through his hair, forcing it through tangled strands. The slight sting reminds him to watch his words. "And, uh, sorry," he says, "About that thing in the car. That was a dick move. I shouldn't have said it."

He winces at the silence that follows.

"This...this was a shitty week," he tries again, "Like a _really_ shitty week, y'know? The kind that seems like it's gonna last forever. And I was so fucking miserable, but Junior was worse. And now he's not."

Washington says nothing.

Tucker swallows hard. "I haven't seen him this happy in awhile," he admits, forcing himself to continue, "And, uh, I know it wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you. So I just wanted to say thanks."

"Don't worry about it," Wash says finally.

Tucker shakes his head, completely frustrated. "No—Wash, you don't get it," he says, "You're not getting how bad things were. How much I—we—"

"Don't worry about it," Wash repeats softly, voice so kind and honest that it makes Tucker stop where he stands. His heart is pounding fiercely, chest aching from some feeling he's trying to hold back. Inexplicably, he thinks about how Wash looked with the sun in his hair.

"Wash," he says, "Wash—"

"Tucker, if anything I was just returning the favor."

And maybe Tucker doesn't know what that means, but he's grateful nonetheless.


	8. The Shopping Trip

After the animal shelter, things are different between him and Wash. Not bad different or anything, just kind of...well, _weird_. Specifically the kind of weird that comes from not knowing where you stand with somebody anymore.

He can't say that Washington isn't a friend or anything, but he's so unlike any that Tucker's  ever had before that sometimes it feels like calling him that's wrong. He's something else. Something less or more. Something different.

Tucker isn't sure how he feels about that. He knows, though, that nobody else would've done what Wash did without having any ulterior motives, not even Church or Carolina. Hell, especially not Church or Carolina. And he knows with the exact same certainty that he wouldn't have listened to anyone else talk about their favorite childhood memories like he did Wash.

Maybe that's why he was such a dick about it that night—his brain was so confused about what was going on that it freaked out and took it out on somebody else. Yeah, that explains it. It and every other weird thing that happened that night, including that moment he spent way too long thinking about Wash's hair.

Washington looks at him out of the corner of his eye. For one brief, horrifying moment, Tucker is convinced that he can read minds, but then Wash opens his mouth and disabuses him of the notion.

"Tom called while you were in the shower."

Tucker has to wait for his heart to stop pounding in his ears in order for him to take in the words. "Wait, _Tom?_ " he says in disbelief, "Like one night stand Tom? The guy who still wants to have your babies? What did he want?"

Washington rolls his eyes. "He doesn't want to have my babies," he says. "He's just friendly. That's all. Anything else is a figment of your imagination."

"Uh-huh," Tucker says.

Wash gives him that annoying judgmental look that Tucker has inexplicably become fond of. "In any case," he says pointedly, "He wasn't calling to talk to me. He was actually calling to ask about you."

"Me?" Tucker exclaims, "What does he wanna ask about me for? _I'm_ not the one he wants to bang." Not that Tucker could blame him if he did. That's just how things go when people lay their eyes on him.

“He wanted to know whether or not Epsilon was getting along with your son."

"Oh, hell yeah he is!" Tucker says enthusiastically, "Junior loves the fuck out of him. He hasn't stopped smiling since I brought him home. It's pretty fucking awesome. Between that and Halloween coming up, the kid is stoked."

Sometimes Tucker can't help but stop and stare, standing there with a stupid look on his face as he watches his kid laugh for the first time in months. He hasn't forgotten that Wash is responsible.

Washington smiles back. “I’m glad to hear it."

And he probably is, because Wash is a good guy. The type of guy who cares about cats and other people's kids. The type of guy who even gives a shit about people like Tucker, who are kind of assholes. It puts him on edge.

"Yeah," Tucker says abruptly, "Anyway, I should go."

Wash blinks hard. "What?"

"I've gotta go," Tucker says again. Preferably before he starts acting like a dick again for no reason. "I can't just hang out with you all night long, dude, I've got a kid at home. I know he's got a babysitter, but he's gonna miss me eventually."

Washington's face clears. "Of course. I—"

Tucker slides out of Washington's car without waiting to hear the rest of the sentence. He can sense Washington's confusion, is almost viscerally aware of the affront Wash feels. It has him pausing before he gets too far away.

He hesitates, then turns back, sidling around the car until he's standing by the driver's side window. "So you're on barbecue duty this week, aren't you?" he hears himself ask out of nowhere, "Shopping, not cleanup, right?"

"Yes, I am," Wash says drily, doing a great job of hiding his surprise, "You were standing right there next to me when Carolina told me. Somehow I assumed that meant you were paying attention."

Tucker waves dismissively. "Yeah, well," he begins, "You know what happens when you assume."

Wash snorts. "That's just as much of an insult to you as it is to me."

Tucker ignores that only because it's true. "Anyway," he says, "I could help you out with that if you want. Go shopping with you. Maybe return the favor for the whole Epsilon thing. Your choice."

Washington waits patiently after he's done speaking, an expectant look on his face like he's waiting for the punch line. When it doesn't come, he arches an eyebrow and says, "You think I need help buying hamburgers and beer?"

Tucker scoffs. "You think you don't?" he asks, "Because seriously, I don't know what parties you've been to with them, but if you don't get the right brand of hot dogs then people are gonna be bitching all afternoon long."

"You can't be serious. No one is going to care if I buy—"

"How much do you think they'd bitch if you brought the wrong beer?"

Washington makes a face as he considers the likelihood of stubborn and whiny personalities doing what it is they do best: kick up a fuss and complain . "Alright," he says reluctantly, "What do you have in mind?"

They can't go Friday because he and Junior have to be up early the next day, but…

"We can go Thursday," Tucker suggests, "After work, since we don't have to work out that day. I mean, if Sheila's down with watching Junior."

Wash doesn't need time to consider that at all. "Sounds good. That is, if you can get the time off. I can pick you up at your house if—"

"Nah," Tucker says, feeling that 'itchy trigger finger' sensation edge on him again. That’s too intimate, too...something Church will make fun of him for. "We can meet at the supermarket. Just tell me where you wanna go when I call you up tonight to tell you if Sheila's good to go.”

Washington nods, a motion that Tucker unconsciously echoes.

Sounds like the two of them have a plan.

 

* * *

 

"You're doing what?" Church asks flatly.

"I'm just helping Wash do the shopping thing before South threatens to punch his balls off for not getting that hot sauce she loves so much," Tucker replies, "Stop acting like I offered to ride his dick."

"But going shopping together? I don't know, Tucker, seems kind of domestic to me," Church responds, the sound of mockery heavy in his voice, "For all I know fucking him isn't too far behind."

"Shut up," Tucker grumbles. Irritably, he scowls at the wall, wondering how Church always manages to make everything with Washington weird. "We’re not even taking the same car. Just...look, are you going to watch Junior or not?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna say not."

"What!? Come on, it's just for a couple of hours! I already asked Carolina, but she and York have a thing tomorrow."

"That's too bad, Tucker," Church drawls obnoxiously, "Looks like you're going to have to reschedule your date."

Tucker fumes for a moment, both at the insinuation and at Church turning him down. "Okay, you know what?" he snaps, "I wasn't gonna fucking do this, but if you're gonna be a little bitch about it, then fine. If you don't watch Junior tomorrow night, I'm going to call Caboose up and tell him that Sheila's going out with Lopez again!"

"So? How the fuck is that my problem?"

Tucker smiles smugly, sorry that Church can't see it over the phone. "Caboose is gonna make it your problem when he comes knocking on your door tomorrow begging to be let in. Have fun dealing with that shit for hours."

"Tucker," Church warns.

"I can hang up right now and—"

"Fine!" Church says angrily. He makes that aggravated noise that's absolutely hilarious to hear; like a steam train going off, or fuck, like an elephant dying. "Goddamn it, Tucker, you don't have to be a dick about it."

Tucker rocks back on his heels. "So do we have a deal or what?"

"Shut the fuck up."

That's what Tucker thought.

 

* * *

 

So he and Wash are definitely on for Thursday evening, which of course means it takes Tucker until his lunch break on Thursday afternoon to realize that they're going about everything all wrong.

He pulls out his cell phone to tell Wash so.

 _Ok I know u wanted 2 go 2 ur place, but I think we should go 2 mine,_ Tucker texts, then reconsiders the words when he realizes how it sounds. He deletes it and tries again. _I think we should go 2 my supermarket instead of urs._

 _Why?_ Wash writes a minute later.

_Bcuz mine has everything, so we only have 2 make 1 trip._

_Everything like what?_ Washington types, then answers his own question before Tucker gets a chance to. _If you mean food and beer, then you don't have to worry. Both stores are close to home, so I don't mind going multiple places. My supermarket is fine._

_Yeah, but I bet urs doesn't have kosher hot dogs and cheeses and beer and stuff 4 Church and Carolina._

There's a long pause between messages.

 _I wasn't aware that they were Jewish,_ Washington responds.

Tucker can almost hear the note of confusion in his voice. He's probably wondering how he could have missed something like that, but it's not so surprising to Tucker. They always joke that they're only Jewish on the holidays.

 _Their mom was Jewish, so they're Jewish,_ Tucker explains, _And her bday was like 3 days ago. So they're probably gonna b doing the kosher thing 4 a couple of wks. No big. But unless ur place has it, we should go 2 mine._

_Fine. Just tell me where it is so we can meet up._

"What are you doing?"

Tucker looks up and sees Simmons standing in front of his desk. He blinks hard, looking around the room, wondering when everyone stopped looking at that latest vine of the rookies failing at parkour.

From across the room, Palomo suddenly pushes off from his desk and rolls toward them, coming to a stop at Simmons' side. "Tucker's been texting someone all through his lunch break," he says excitedly, "I think he finally has a girlfriend!"

"Shut up, Palomo," Tucker says irritably. He's only been texting for like two minutes. He glances as the clock to make sure. Okay, five minutes. Still, that's not a big deal.

"Wait, what?" Simmons says. He looks down at Tucker suspiciously, craning his neck to get a look at the phone just as it vibrates again. Tucker tilts it back so he can't see. "Are you sexting Grif's sister again? He's going to kill you!"

"I'm not sexting Grif's sister," Tucker replies. Not right now, anyway. "I'm just texting Wash to make sure we're meeting up at the right place tonight."

"Wash? That's kind of a weird girl's name," Palomo says. He cocks his head, considering it for a moment. "I mean, what's it short for? Washa? Washamina? Wash—"

"Palomo, get the fuck out of here."

"Aw, man," Palomo says, looking crestfallen, "I was just—"

"Palomo!"

"Okay, okay," Palomo says. He mournfully begins to roll himself backward, eyes never leaving Tucker's face, eyes wide and puppyish as he slips away, almost as though he expects to be told that Tucker was only joking.

"Where did Kimball find that guy?" he asks rhetorically.

Simmons shrugs. "Probably the same place she found us."

Tucker rolls his eyes, then takes one final look at his phone before casting it aside. _Hopefully this is better than your other ideas_.

"Oh, it is," Tucker murmurs, "It totally fucking is."

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Tucker gets to prove he's right.

"I don't understand," Washington says slowly, "What is this?"

Tucker beams at the skeletons doing keg stands on barrels covered in pumpkin stickers. "It's the best kept secret in all of Blood Gulch," he says proudly, "Isn't it great? I've been going here since I was twenty."

"Great," Washington repeats, "Well, that's certainly one word for it."

He's beginning to get the impression that Wash isn't exactly seeing the awesomeness of this place. Sure, it's dusty and dirty and covered with grime on the outside, but for one reason and one reason only it's the single best supermarket he's ever been to in his life: the sheer amount of booze it holds.

Even if Wash can’t see it for himself, Tucker knows it's perfect for planning parties. "C'mon, let me show you inside," he says, drawing Wash forward with hands on shoulders, "I promise you won’t regret it."

Wash allows himself to be manhandled until they're inside, but then he slides out of Tucker's arms as though he were never there, leaving Tucker faltering and standing there with his arms outstretched like an ass.

Tucker blinks and shakes it off, hands dropping to his side like normal as he straightens his back and acts like everything is fine. "Okay," he says, "So the first place we wanna go to is the beer aisle."

"Looks like they're all the beer aisle," Wash says drily.

And looking around at the place, it might look like he has a point, but The Special A is so much more than that. The Special A is the only supermarket in town that specifically sells stuff you need for parties.

Having a Super Bowl party? You can buy chicken wings, beer, and plates and napkins with the logos of whoever’s playing. Planning a sleepover for your kid? There's a huge section filled with nothing but candy, chips and soda. Need stuff for a kegger? The display proves they've definitely got that. Hell, if you're into that kind of thing, they even have fancy wines and cheeses for your more boring parties. So sure, they might not have milk or cereal, but they'll definitely have anything you might need for a barbecue.

“Are you sure about this?” Washington asks.

"Don't worry about it," Tucker says as he snags a shopping cart, "Just trust me on this, okay?" Washington still looks skeptical, so Tucker grabs him by the elbow and starts tugging him along, fingers wrapped tight around bare skin.

Out of nowhere, Tucker starts thinking about the way Church mocked him about tonight. He shakes that off too, along with the lingering sense of unease flickering against his nerves, but he lets go of Washington once they're where they're supposed to be and immediately starts throwing stuff into the cart.

"Okay, first up: Simmons only drinks stupid hipster beers that nobody else likes."

"I see," Wash says warily. He stares down at the rapidly growing number of six-packs that he's going to have to buy. "So why are you getting so many?"

Tucker rolls his eyes as he puts a couple more in. That answer's obvious enough for Caboose to get. "Uh, because Grif'll drink whatever's closest to him? And whatever's closest to him means what's closest to Simmons."

Wash opens his mouth and—

"Dude, don't bother asking," Tucker tells him, "People have been trying to figure them out for years."

"I wasn't going to," Washington lies, "It's none of my business,"

"Uh-huh, yeah, I believe you," Tucker says, "But for the record, I've got a hundred bucks on them secretly getting married years ago and not telling anyone because then everybody would think they're gay."

Washington shakes his head. "That is quite possible the dumbest thing I've ever heard anyone say," he tells Tucker, "But I think you might actually have a chance at winning."

Tucker grins. That doesn't meant a lot from someone who barely knows them, but it's still good to hear regardless. "I'd be kinda upset if that was true, though," he admits, "Because I would've thrown a kickass bachelor's party. Fuck, I would've hired so many strippers—"

Wash smirks. " _Male_ strippers?"

Tucker shakes his head dismissively. "Nah, I'm pretty sure they only like women," he says, the  rushes to continue when Washington's eyebrows fly up in disbelief, "I mean, liking a dude doesn't make you gay or bi or whatever, right? It just means you have an exception. Right?"

Tucker winces as he glances at Washington out of the corner of his eye, knowing that his reaction won't be good. He half expects a lecture or discussion or revenge, but what he actually sees when he lays eyes on Wash leaves Tucker startling hard

Washington looks _lost_ , eyes going far off into some old memory. "I think people can call themselves whatever they want to," he says carefully, "Sometimes it takes time to figure out who you are."

It has the uncomfortable ring of a hard-earned truth to it, the weight of it turning the air around them heavy and still as Tucker is forced to listen to something more personal than he wanted to hear.

Tucker shifts his weight from foot to foot. "So I'll get the beer for Church and Carolina if you get a couple of six-packs of whatever," he says even as his eyes never leave the cart, "It's not like the others are picky, you know?"

Washington clear his throat. "Alright."

Alright?

Tucker blinks in surprise and dares to meet Washington's gaze, still a little terrified that he'll see something he doesn't want to see. Like, fuck, crying or some shit. Some teenage trauma aftermath. That same wild look that Simmons gets whenever he talks about his dad.

But Washington actually looks grateful.

Tucker looks away. He doesn't want to see that, not over something that wasn't even for Wash. He licks his lips nervously, hoping that this won't turn into a thing. "And get some Miller 64 too," he says quickly, "Donut hates calories."  

To his relief, the only response he gets is the sound of footsteps.

 

* * *

 

When Wash comes back, they make sure to stay away from any conversations that could accidentally get heavy, sticking to easier topics like what brand of hot sauce to get, or whether or not twenty six-packs is an excessive number for the amount of people who will be at the party.

After that, it's just a quick jaunt to the dairy aisle…

“If we’re getting Kosher cheese, we don’t have to buy anything else,” Washington says impatiently, “We don’t have to buy two different versions of American.”

         “Caboose says he can taste the difference!”

         “I still don’t know who Caboose is, but he’s wrong."

And then over to the meat section....

         “Everyone loves shish-kebabs, dude.”

         Washington agrees.

And then finally they can make their way out the door.

Tucker stretches as soon as they finish packing the bags into Washington's car. "Fuck, that took longer than I thought," he says, glancing at his phone to make sure, "Nearly an hour. How the hell did we manage that?"

"It was probably the fifteen minute long argument we had over beer," Washington points out drily, "Which I still think you're wrong about, by the way."

"No way," Tucker says, "You’ll see. Just wait until the barbecue. Then you'll get to learn allabout Grif and Sister's ability to drink anyone under the table. Not to mention Donut's ability to turn anyone into a social drinker."

Washington rolls his eyes fondly. "Well at the very least, we agree on the food."

Tucker's stomach growls then, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten for almost six hours. “Fuck, I am so fucking hungry right now," Tucker complains, grateful for the distraction, “I'm gonna starve if I don't get something in me soon."

Washington hesitates for a moment, catching Tucker's interest. "We could always..."

"We could always what?" Tucker asks curiously.

"There's this place I used to go to that's not too far away," Washington finishes, "We could grab a bite there if you don't feel like picking something up on the way home."

It would mean being a little later than he said he'd be, but it's not like anybody would mind—not even Church, who bitches a lot but secretly has a soft spot for kids. "Yeah, sure," he says with a nod, "Just let me call up Church and let him know."

_Gonna pick up dinner w/ Wash, he texts a moment later, Won't be back til l8r._

_Alright,_ Church texts back, _But don't put out tonight or he'll think you're easy._

"Joke's on you," Tucker says aloud, "I am totally fucking easy."

Washington gives him an odd look.

"Not with you," Tucker tells him, though strangely that doesn't seem to get the look off Washington's face. "Nevermind. Anyway, we're good to go. You go on ahead and I'll follow you in my car."

Wash nods and leads the way. Once out of the parking lot, he leads them down familiar roads, taking them on a journey past the old park where he used to play with Junior and down near the club where Tucker once spent his nights, finally pulling to a stop in front of an old diner that's seen better days.

Tucker practically flies out the car to where Wash is standing. "Wait," he blurts out, "This is where you're bringing me?"

Washington back goes straight in something like defiance. "I know it doesn't look like much, but the food here is amazing. They serve the best—"

"—milkshakes in all of Blood Gulch," Tucker finishes with a nod. Washington pauses, looking a little surprised. "I used to take Junior here every weekend when he was little." He points to the third floor of a crappy, rundown apartment building across the street. "We used to live right there."

Washington shakes his head in amazement. "I used to live around the corner," he tells Tucker, "About five years ago, back before I met Frank. This was the first place I had dinner at when I moved to this city."

They stare at each other for a moment, marveling at how close they had been. "Holy shit, dude," Tucker says, "We probably bumped into each other all the time." If not at the diner, then at the supermarket or the laundromat or any of the million other places they could've met. "Fuck, this is just like the Doc thing."

"Excuse me?" Washington says, "What does he have to do with anything?"

Tucker waves a hand, attempting to somehow encompass every single person either of them have in common in the motion. "Yeah," he says, "Y'know, like how we know all the same people but only met last month."

"Last year," Wash corrects automatically.

"Whatever. You know what I mean.”

"I do," Washington says, "And you're right. It is strange that it was the first time we met. Especially considering, well, everything."

"Yeah," Tucker agrees, turning his gaze up toward the blinking neon lights of Hal's Diner, "Still, it's pretty awesome that you brought me here of all places. I probably never would've come if you hadn't dragged me back."

Washington nods ruefully. "I haven't come in a while myself."

It's a shame. If Wash's time here was anything like Tucker's, there were probably a lot of good memories attached to this place. Probably a couple of bad, too, but that’s to be expected as well. Comes with the territory of visiting any place a lot. But hey, at least the food is worth it.

"Oh man," Tucker says, feet already moving toward the door, "I'm gonna order their triple bacon cheeseburger with chili fries."

Wash smiles. “Complete with milkshake?"

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Tucker exclaims.

The two of them practically dive for the door. They jostle with each other to get inside, pushing and shoving like little kids until Tucker gets a sly elbow in the gut that allows Washington to get in first. The other customers stop to stare, but Tucker doesn't mind; he's too busy being proud that he got Wash.

They ignore the tiny paper menus on the table as they settle in at a nearby booth, instead taking the time to look around and see what's changed in the last couple of years. Amazingly, it looks exactly the way he remembers it looking. Still the same ugly white countertops, still the same cracked linoleum lining the floors; hell, it even smells the same: like beef and Lysol all in one.

“Fuck,” he says in something like awe, “I don’t think they changed a thing.”

"When was the last time you were here?"

Tucker scratches his head as he thinks about it. "I don't know," he says, "Junior had to be around, what? Four? Five? Something like that, anyway. I know it was before he started seeing Doc."

Back then, Junior had a shitty speech therapist who hated kids and probably got a kick out of making them feel like crap, though why the douchebag worked with them in the first place was something that Tucker would never understand.

Tucker shrugs. "What about you?"

Washington looks embarrassed all of a sudden. "This is where I brought Tom on our date," he admits. Tucker snickers, which only makes Wash look defensive instead. "I wanted to be somewhere casual, but comfortable!"

Tucker shakes his head."So you had him ruin the best place in town for you?" he asks rhetorically, "Way to go, asshole.”

“He didn’t ruin anything!” Wash protests.

“Uh-huh. I believe you,” Tucker says unconvincingly, “So how'd you two hook up anyway?"

Washington shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't answer Tucker at first, staying silent long enough for Tucker to begin to wonder if he overstepped. "He asked me out not too long after Doc and I broke up," he explains tersely, "And I said yes. It was a mistake."

Tucker keeps quiet and watches him.

The silence seems to make Wash jittery. There's a jerkiness to his movements that wasn't there before, a twitchiness to his fingers that makes him play nervously with a bottle of ketchup. Even now, the mention of that time affects him. "I was in a bad place afterwards," he admits, "I wasn't ready to date for a long time after. Tom was the first. It didn't go well."

"How long were you two together?"

"I already told you, only—oh," he says when he realizes what Tucker means, "We were together for a little over three years."

Tucker gives a low whistle. He's never had a relationship that lasted longer than the nine months of a school year. Three years is...shit, it's nearly impossible to imagine, but when he pictures York and Carolina breaking up then he thinks he might have an idea.

"Fuck, dude. That really sucks."

"Yeah," Washington says sorrowfully, "It really does."

He's staring down at his milkshake with such a sad look on his face that it makes even Tucker feel a sympathy twinge of grief and regret. He opens his mouth to apologize for bringing it up, but the waitress comes along that very second, asking them if they’re ready to order. Washington looks up in relief. “Do you still serve breakfast all day long?”

“Sure do,” the waitress chirps.

“Then I’ll have the Breakfast Deluxe with extra sausage and he’ll have the triple bacon cheeseburger with chili fries.”

The waitress looks to Tucker to make sure that’s correct. She's hot, if a little pale for his liking, but she's got hair as red as Carolina's even if her eyes are a lesser shade of green. Tucker nods and leers. “And we’ll both have milkshakes,” he says while waggling his eyebrows seductively at her. “Black and white. You can put a little extra vanilla in mine.”

Washington rolls his eyes.

The waitress smiles back and says slyly, “And will your boyfriend like a little extra chocolate?”

Tucker nearly chokes on air. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait right there. We are not dating. I’m not gay. Not even like half, or a little bit, okay? Pure straight, right here.” He glances at Wash and amends his statement. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“You’re right, Tucker,” Wash says in a voice heavy with irony, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being straight. It’s not something you can choose. You were just born that way.”

"Oh, shut up," Tucker grumbles, “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Wash says. He’s still smirking a little, but that’s alright, because he turns to the waitress and tells her they’re done, letting the awful awkwardness in the air dissipate as she goes. “This is the least of the reasons why you shouldn’t try to flirt with people who are working customer service jobs.”

“What, because they’ll think you’re gay?”

“No, because—nevermind,” Washington says as he shakes his head. Then, looking as though he can’t possibly help himself, he finishes his sentence anyway. “It’s because they think they have to play along with any stupid joke a customer makes in order to get a good tip.”

"Oh, please," Tucker says, "Do you know how often it's gotten me numbers? Flirting with hot waitresses is how I got my last girlfriend!"

"And how long did that last?" Washington mocks.

"Longer than your relationship with Tom," Tucker shoots back smugly. Wash gives him a wry look, silently giving him that one. “We lasted, like...what? Six months, I think? Not as long as you and Doc, but still pretty long.”

“What happened?” Wash asks curiously.

Tucker smiles tightly. "She decided she wanted me, but not the kid."

Nearly half a fucking year and she walks up to him saying some bullshit about how dealing with a single father was harder than it seemed. How he was never around when she needed him to be. How they never got to go out as much as she wanted. Like wanting to have a good time was more important than his son.

No fucking way. Not again.

"I'm sorry," Washington says. He holds Tucker's gaze with a sober expression, eyes going dark with apparent empathy. "She should've known that your son always comes first."

And that's when Tucker realizes he said all that out loud. He swallows hard and has to look away for a moment, cheeks burning fiercely with embarrassment. "Yeah," he chokes out, "Yeah, she should've."

He's thankful for the waitress coming back with their drinks and immediately starts fiddling with the straw when she places his in front of him. Thankfully, Washington doesn't call attention to it, doesn't try to joke about it or change the subject like Tucker would have done if it were him. Just lets him sit there saying nothing. It’s probably the second nicest thing that Wash has ever done for him.

Tucker absentmindedly takes a sip of his milkshake. "Holy shit, dude!" he exclaims suddenly, causing Washington to startle, "Holy shit, it's like they pimped these out." They were always great, but now they're _amazing._ Good enough to make anyone forget how things used to be.

Wash takes a sip of his own.

"I think they're using, like, more expensive ice cream or something," Tucker says when Wash's eyes widen at the taste, "Or maybe just making their own, I dunno."

"They've definitely changed something," Washington agrees, “Connie—a friend of mine, I don’t suppose you’ve met?”

Tucker shakes his head.

“Well regardless, she never learned to appreciate the food here,” Wash tells him, voice going indignant at the thought. He frowns severely, an expression that anyone else would say was too serious for the subject at hand. Everybody but Tucker, that is. “She used to say it was 'basic americana.'"

“Bullshit!” Tucker says loudly. People stop to stare, but he doesn't give a shit. "There's nothing basic about this stuff!"

"Exactly," Wash say firmly. They both take another sip at the exact same time, lips twitching upward at their mutual defiance. "But even if she didn't like the food, she always said the milkshakes were amazing. I should lure her back with these and make her give the restaurant another try."

"I should bring Junior back," Tucker confesses, "He always used to beg to come here after we moved, but I was always too tired from work. I don't know if he even remembers the place nowadays."

"You should," Washington agrees.

"Yeah, turn it into a family affair," Tucker says. He nudges Wash's foot with his own as a thought occurs to him. "Maybe I'll actually recognize you if we bump into each other here this time. Oh, and hey—you could finally meet my kid!"

Washington looks startled, but pleased. "You want me to meet your kid?"

“Yeah, I guess,” Tucker says. He smiles impishly, then, and destroys the mushiness of the moment by saying: “I mean, he doesn’t usually like boring people, but maybe he’ll be nice and make an exception in your case.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Washington deadpans.

Their food arrives then, and they dive right in, and the conversation soon descends into an argument over whether Wash is boring or not.

But throughout it, they keep smiling at each other.

 

* * *

 

The night air is brisk when they finally leave the diner, a coolness bordering on coldness that has Tucker shivering the minute they walk out the door. Washington seems completely unaffected.

"Fucking Oregonians," Tucker says accusingly, "Learn how to weather, asshole."

Washington has the nerve to laugh. He's standing there in nothing more than a thin t-shirt that shows off his arms while Tucker is bundled up in his best fall jacket and he has the nerve to act like it's a warm summer day. He is such a dick.

"Everyone told me that I would adjust to the weather after living here long enough, but I never have," Washington admits, "Instead I start boiling whenever the temperature rises above ninety-five. If you had met me two or three months ago, you would've been laughing too."

Tucker comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing a couple to walk around him or crash into him head first. "Wait 'till next summer," he threatens, all the while ignoring the rude replies, “I’m gonna take you out on the hottest day of the year. You're gonna die."

“I can’t wait,” Washington says, white teeth flashing on a grin.

Neither can Tucker.

They continue on their way together, walking companionably down the street as their arms brush every few feet, elbows knocking against each other whenever one of them momentarily draws near. It should feel weird or off-putting, but somehow it doesn't; in the end it's no different from walking with Carolina.

"So I guess this is goodbye," Washington says as they get to his car.

"Yeah," Tucker says hesitantly.

He finds himself wishing that Wash will ask him something else. Something that'll keep the conversation going on into the night. He'll take anything at all, even stupid questions about exercising, But Wash doesn't ask. He doesn't bring up training or Epsilon or anything like that, just nods his head jerkily and steps into his car without another word, leaving Tucker blinking stupidly in his wake.

"Right," Tucker mutters under his breath as he turns away, doing his best to shove down on his bitter disappointment as he turns to shuffle the distance to his car. He doesn't know why he expected anything different. He doesn't know why he even cares.

And he definitely doesn't understand why his heart skips a beat when Wash finally speaks up.

"What's Junior going to be for Halloween?" Washington blurts out.

Tucker startles clumsily and spins back around. There's a smile crawling up his face that he can't disguise, a grin that that grows too wide for his face, expanding and changing until he's beaming at Washington through the window. "Oh, man," he says enthusiastically, "He 's going to be the sickest alien this neighborhood's ever seen."

Washington leans against the window and does his best to hide his own smile. "Why don’t you tell me all about it?" he says in a voice half-muffled by the glass, so quietly spoken that it makes Tucker want to lean in close. "I'd love to hear it."

Tucker doesn't need to be asked twice.


	9. Interlude

**Oct 29, 4:27 pm**

Hey, Tucker! It’s me, Doc! I just wanted to give you a heads up that I’m going to be in town next month. I’m really looking forward to seeing Junior again—I haven’t seen him since he was super small! I bet he’s made a lot of progress since I left. Anyway, I should get going. Call me back if you want to make plans.

**End of message**   
  


**Oct 30, 10:02 pm**

Hey Doc, it’s Tucker. I got your message about visiting and now Junior won’t shut up about it. Thanks a lot, asshole.  You should come to Church and Carolina’s thing and see how everyone’s doing. Might as well hang out with everyone all at once. Uh, Wash is probably going to be there, though. Just a heads up.

**End of message**   
  


**Oct 31, 7:41 pm**

Wow, Tucker, I guess we just keep missing each other! Isn’t that funny? I just called to wish you and Junior a happy Halloween. Is it still his favorite holiday? Take lots of pictures!

It’s going to be great to see Wash again! I haven’t seen him in such a long time—we have so much catching up to do! Gosh, I knew you two had met before, but I had no idea the two of you were friends. Small world, huh?

**End of message**   
  


**Nov 1, 8:42 pm**

This is stupid. All we've been doing is playing telephone tag with each other for days. The only reason I'm calling you back is because Junior wants me to invite you over for dinner. I'm pretty sure he'll cry if you say no—

No I won't! _Dad!_ Tell him I won't!

Okay, okay, jeez. He definitely won't cry if you don't come, but he'll probably whine and be a brat about it and I don't want to deal with that shit. So you'd better come. And then maybe you can explain why you never told me you were dating one of Carolina's best friends.

**End of message**   
  


**Nov 3, 9:45 am**

Hi, Tucker! Are you having a good morning? Sorry I haven’t been answering your calls, I was just really enjoying our back and forth—it’s like having a pen pal again! Anyway, I was really surprised to find out that you didn’t know about us. After all, I used to mention him all the time to you and Junior back when we were dating! But I guess you didn't realize it was him. Isn’t that funny?

**End of Message**   
  


**Nov 3, 11:32 am**

You dated Wash while you were Junior's doctor!?  
  


* * *

  
“Oh my god, Tucker, shut up!" Church moans dramatically, " _Shut. Up._ Just shut the fuck up already!  You are driving me out of my goddamn mind with this bullshit!”

“I’m just saying, it’s pretty fucking weird that nobody thought to tell me about it earlier."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Church demands, "Are you seriously freaking out about a bunch of people not telling you that someone you didn’t know was having sex with someone you _did_ know?”

Well when you says it like that of course it's gonna sound stupid.

"Look, it's not like that, okay?" Tucker protests, "I just think it's weird that they were having sex all that time and I never knew about it. I mean, what the fuck, were they hiding it? Because we share all the same friends. I should've known!"

"Tucker, why the fuck would they need to tell you who they were banging?" Church says flatly. He rolls his eyes for what must be the fiftieth time that night. "Even if they did, you wouldn't have cared. And, you know, frankly, the fact that you're making a big deal out of this now is a little—"

"I am _not_ making a big deal out of it!"

“I don’t know, Tucker," he mocks, "You're sounding pretty homophobic right now.”

As if this whole experience wasn’t humiliating enough, the door cracks open just as Tucker shouts, “I’m not a homophobe, I just can’t stop thinking about Wash and Doc having sex all the time!!”

Tex pauses in the doorway, her hands full with Chinese food takeout and her eyebrows raised as high as they'll go. His cheeks burn under her gaze, but instead of saying one of the thousand things she could to make him look like even more an ass, all she does is say mildly, "Looks like I missed a couple of things while I was gone.”

Church gives a derisive snort. “Lucky you,” he says, "You managed to miss the latest episode of, ‘Tucker Bitches About Things No One Cares About.’”

Caboose looks up from where he's sitting on the floor with his headphones on. “I hate that show,” he fumes as he scowls down at his drawing of Freckles, “They only have reruns.”

Church laughs. “You know, Caboose, for once you and I are in total agreement.”

Caboose beams, which only makes Tucker glare at him harder. "Oh, right, _that_ you hear?" he says accusingly, "Not all that stuff about Church paying Donut to be your roommate so you don't have to come over here anymore? Is that what I'm fucking hearing right now?"

"What?" Caboose shouts, "Tucker, I can't—you have to talk louder!"

"I fucking hate all of you," Tucker replies.

Tex scoffs as she strolls over to place the bags of food on the coffee table in front of them. "How do you think I feel?" she says, "I always having to stop myself from punching you cockbites in the head."

Church snorts again. "Yeah, some of us could use it more than others."

"Are you volunteering?" she teases. There's a cock to her hips that belies her threat; a sly look in her eyes as she looms over Church that immediately has him sitting up straight.

Tucker hates it when they flirt in front of him. There's just something about the way they smirk at each other that always leaves him with the vague impression that he now knows more about their sex life than he ever wanted to. It really sucks. Tucker's had enough weird mental images to deal with this week, he doesn't need to add his best friend getting spanked to the disaster pile.

Ugh.

He opens up a bag up just to have something else to focus on. After a moment, the rest of them join him, and they all tear into their food as if they were starving. The company is good, the food is better, and for two whole minutes the silence is sheer bliss. He doesn't have to think about anything he doesn't want to, like Church with his ass out or whether or not Washington likes playing doctor.

Oh, fuck.

"Fuuuck," he moans, tugging at his long curls in utter devastation. This sucks, this sucks so fucking much, and he needs to figure out a way to make it stop. "Seriously, Church, you gotta help me! I don't know what to do about this!"

Church gives a long screech of sheer unqualified rage at the whole thing being brought up again. "What is your goddam problem, Tucker?" he demands to know, "You already knew Doc and Wash dated awhile ago."

“Yeah, but now I know that they were sleeping together while Doc was helping me with my kid," Tucker says. He stares morosely down at the Chinese food on the table. “And now every time I think about it, I think, ‘Oh, maybe that’s why Doc was in such a good mood some days,’ and then I want to _bleach my brain._ ”

Both Church and Tex stare impassively at him. Then, slowly, Tex turns to Church and asks, “How the hell did you manage to sit through twenty minutes of this? I’ve only been here for a couple of minutes and I already want to staple his mouth shut.”

“I have no fucking clue, but I think I deserve a nomination for sainthood.”

 

* * *

  
It’s not as though Tucker doesn’t know that he’s kind of being irrational about it, but the whole thing really is wearing on his nerves. He’s having trouble sleeping just thinking about it, and sometimes even the smallest flicker of an idea is enough to send him mentally running for the hills. The others have no clue how much it’s starting to affect him.

With a frustrated huff, Tucker turns over in his bed and reaches for his phone. _Why didnt u tell me that u dated doc while he was helping junior?_ he pecks out angrily, thumbs stabbing at the keys like they’re trying to murder them.

_Why are you texting me at 3am?_

_Just answer the question,_ Tucker types, _Why didnt u tell me before!?_

He pictures Washington lying in bed, sleepiness fading away at the force of Tucker's anger. He wonders what Wash makes of it, whether he's annoyed like everyone else over it or at just as much at a loss as Tucker.

When the answer comes, it's not what he expected.

 _If you're concerned that Frank might have broken Junior's confidence, then you don't have to worry,_ Washington tells him, _He's not that type of person. And even if he was, it's unlikely that I would remember anything he told me back then._

Relief abruptly crashes through him as he blinks down at the words. It's not like he was worrying about it, not before, but now it's all that he can think about. What if Doc had shared all the little secrets that Junior told him over the years? What if Junior ever found out? What if—

The phone buzzes again, signaling another message.

_And even if I did, I would never tell._

Tucker swallows hard at the reassurance. Somehow it's the last part that's the most convincing. Not all the stuff about Doc not talking, which should be obvious, but the part about Wash keeping his mouth shut as well. Surprisingly, he has more faith in the latter than the former.

 _Thank you,_ he types sincerely, _Seriously, dude. Junior would not take that well at all._

_It's nothing, Wash responds._

_Yeah, it is._

Wash doesn't respond, but that's okay. Tucker has already gotten what he needs. Not what he wanted, maybe, but definitely what he needs. He fiddles with his phone and feels better than he has in days.

Then he unlocks it and types again.

 _Hey church,_ he writes carefully, _do u think ive been thinking about wash and doc banging bcuz I was worried about doc telling wash about junior?_

The phone rings suddenly, startling him into sitting up straight.

"No," Church snarls when he picks it up and answers, "I think you kept thinking about it because you're a fucking moron who needs to stop bothering people with bullshit no one but you cares about."

"Yeah, but, I mean, it makes sense, right?"

"Seriously, lose this number—ow, what the fuck!?" Church hisses out of nowhere, "Tex, no, would you stop—" There's a loud thump after the last word, like someone falling to the floor. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving!" He hears a rustling on the other end of the line, then stomping noises, and finally the loud bang of a door slamming shut.

"Look at what you did, asshole."

"Yeah, why do you think I _texted_ you in the first place?" Tucker says pointedly, "It's so you don't piss anyone off by talking out loud. It's pretty much why they invented it at all. That and sexting.

"Tucker, are you trying to tell me that calling me up at three fucking thirteen in the morning was you trying to be considerate?"

"Yeah," Tucker says.

Church inhales sharply through his nose, then let's it out slowly, breathing into the phone like its a dirty call and he doesn't want to get off yet. "You are worse than fucking Caboose sometimes, do you know that?"

Tucker scoffs.

"And I'm going to kick your ass when I see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Tucker says, "But do you think I'm right about the Washington thing?"

"Tucker, I don't think you've been right about a thing in your life."

But that doesn't mean he's not right about this. Or so he thinks, right up until he springs up in bed in a sudden panic after dreaming about making out with Wash on a roof.

 


	10. Thanksgiving

After two weeks of being alternately ignored and constantly stared at by Tucker, Washington finally decides he’s had enough.

“Alright,” he says irritably, “What’s going on?”

Tucker jumps and nearly falls on his face, barely catching himself as he stumbles out of his crouch, hands fumbling to keep a hold of weights. He stands up quickly enough, however, and plasters and innocent look on his face.

“What’s going on with what?” he asks.

Washington looks at him in exasperation. Two weeks ago, he might have played along and let this whole thing pass without comment, but by now he knows that ignoring the situation won’t fix it.

“Tucker,” Wash growls, “What’s been going on with you lately?”

He thinks he sees a flash of guilt cross Tucker’s face at that, but it’s gone before he can tell for sure. “I don’t know, _bro_ ,” Tucker says snidely, “What’s been going on with _you_?”

“Nothing!” Wash says, frustration evident in his voice. He waves a hand around the room. “I’m just trying to get through this appointment without anymore strangeness between us.”

Tucker frowns at that, but it seems put on; just as put on as his anger and defensiveness. “Nobody’s acting strange around here, okay?” he insists, “I’m just trying to do some crunches.”

“I know!” Washington says, “And you haven’t complained once!”

There’s a beat where they both pause to consider what he just said. For a second, they just stare at each other in confusion, neither quite sure what to say to that.

“Wait,” Tucker says, squinting at Washington as if expecting a trick, “First you say you’re tired of me always screwing up your schedule, and now you’re bitching at me about not messing around?”

Wash shifts his weight from foot to foot. He sighs then, thinking about all the ways this conversation could’ve gone right. “I’m just…I’m wondering what you haven’t been able to look me in the eye in weeks.”

Tucker raises his chin. “I haven’t—”

“No,” Washington says firmly, “I know something’s up, I just don’t know what.” He hesitates before taking a step forward, watching in dismay as Tucker takes one back. “Look, did I do something to offend you at some point?”

“No,” Tucker says, “I just—”

“Because if I have, at least tell me so I can apologize and make amends.”

“Wash—”

“Because I’m tired of going through session after session dealing with the silent treatment and the cold shoulder. We can—”

“Just shut up, okay?” Tucker bursts out. He’s breathing heavily, chest going up and down faster than it does when they are training. Whatever he’s upset about, it’s serious to him.

Washington goes silent.

After a moment, Tucker gives a sigh and runs his fingers through his sweaty hair. “No, alright?” he mutters, “You didn’t do anything. I just have a lot of other shit going on right now.”

Washington hates how relieved he is to hear that. He hates that some part of him is pleased to hear that it wasn’t him, that something else is making Tucker upset enough that it follows him everywhere. He wants to think he’s a better person that that, but it turns out he’s only an okay person after all.

Somehow, he thinks Tucker won’t mind that so much.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Tucker huffs and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, “It’s cool. I’ll get over it. It’s just a bunch of really weird nightmares keeping me up at night.”

“I’ve had my share of those,” Wash admits.

Tucker snorts. “I bet you have.”

Wash narrows his eyes.

“What?” Tucker says, “I was being serious. You were a soldier, right? Don’t all of you guys get nightmares sometimes? I thought it came with the job.”

Washington nods ruefully. “It’s not exactly what they tell you when you sign up,” he says, “But yeah. That seems to be the general consensus.”

He doesn’t think Tucker even realizes, but he’s been inching closer to him the longer they speak, almost as though he can’t help himself. By now, he’s standing in front of Washington, peering up into his eyes like he’s trying to figure him out…

…or maybe like he’s trying to figure out how to help, because the next words out of his mouth involves some questionable advice.

“Punching things really helps Carolina.”

He bets it does.

He bets it probably helps Texas as well, because those two are way more alike than they’d like to imagine. Unfortunately, that’s not quite Washington’s style.

“It’s fine,” Wash says. He gives Tucker a small smile, relaxing when it gets him one in return. “Don’t worry, I can usually get back to sleep after an hour or so of infomercials.

Tucker scoffs. “Who said I was worried?”

Washington bites back the grin that wants to form. “Of course you weren’t,” he agrees, letting it burst free when Tucker scowls back at him.

“Ugh,” Tucker says plaintively, “You are such a dick.” He makes a face, nose scrunching up like he’s truly disgusted. “Whatever, can we stop with this touchy-feely bullshit now or what? Cause this conversation got really ga—”

Washington tilts his head and waits.

“Gaa—irly,” Tucker says, “It got really girly. Yeah.”

That's not any better.

“I’m sure every woman you know will be happy you think so,” Washington tells him, smirking when it sends a note of alarm surging through Tucker’s body. He laughs when Tucker sits up straight, eyes going wide with panic.

“Wait, no,” Tucker says hastily, “I mean great. I meant this conversation got really great.” His shoulders slump when he realizes Wash isn’t buying it—and not just that, but taking clear pleasure in his fumbling. “Fuck, dude, you can’t rat me out. Last time I said that, Carolina made me play volleyball against her.”

That doesn’t sound too bad to him.

Tucker glares at him when he says so out loud. “Dude, she kept aiming for me when she was spiking the ball!” he whines like a little kid, “I had to spend to the whole time dodging it!”

“Sounds like she really kept you on your toes.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Tucker grumbles, “I swear, she’s worse than you sometimes. Or like, all the time, whatever. I’m lucky she’s not the one training me to be hot.”

“Training you to be—”

“You know what I mean!”

He does, but it’s a lot more fun to needle Tucker by pretending he doesn’t. If he takes it far enough, Tucker’s eyes will flash with anger and his skin will light up with that faint flush of his that’s so visually pleasing.

It’s a nice view.

Nicer, perhaps, than Washington should reasonably find it, but there’s nothing wrong with finding a friend attractive—even if you do constantly find ways of making them even more appealing.

Tucker stands in the middle of the room and fumes. "Don't you have better things to do than fuck with me?" he says with a scowl, "Or is being a dick more of a full time job? Because if it is, you can go straight to...wait, why do you look evil all of a sudden?"

Washington shakes his head firmly, pretending that it's sudden regret stealing his smile away. "You know what? You're right," he says gravely,  "We never should have gotten distracted. In fact, maybe you should go double time to make up for lost time. I know how much you'll regret it if you don't."

Tucker blinks hard. "Double time? Uh, wait, hold on..."

"No, no," Wash replies, "We have to get to work immediately."

Much to his entertainment, Tucker stalks over to him and gets in his face, attempting to be threatening despite his short stature and complete lack of combat training . "No fucking way," he exclaims as he crosses his arms angrily, "My calves already look as good as they are gonna get."

Wash's eyes trail down automatically. He can't really see them from this angle, but he remembers the one time Tucker wore shorts, and to be perfectly honest, Tucker's probably right. But saying that is against the rules.

"I suppose I can let you get off easily this time."

For some reason that gets a laugh out of Tucker, his white teeth flashing on a sudden grin. Washington watches, a little bit stunned, as Tucker's face is transformed by his glee. He's so caught by the crinkling of the eyes, by the earnest beaming, that he realizes what's happening a hair's breadth too late.

"Oh, don't you--"

"Bow chicka bow wow!" Tucker exclaims.

Washington sighs. "On second thought, double time sounds about right."

Tucker gives him a thumbs up as he backs away. "Totally worth it," he tells Washington as he picks up the weights that he dropped earlier, “Just for the look on your face, dude.”

“I’m glad I could amuse you,” Wash says drily.

"Yeah," Tucker deadpans, "You're the funniest guy I know."

Tucker rolls his eyes as he gets back into position and the session moves on like...well, like usual, but the usual of the past few months, not the broken and confused mess of these past few weeks.

Washington really shouldn't be as happy about it as he is.

 

* * *

 

“So,” York begins with a grin.

“Nope,” Washington says firmly, “We are not doing this. Just keep it to yourself.”

"Sooo,” York repeats, stretching out the vowel in a way that makes it sound like an innuendo, “Sounds like you two are getting pretty close, huh?"

Washington keeps his face and voice as bland as can be. Saying they're close is a bit of a stretch, but getting York to believe that will be nearly impossible. “I can’t imagine why you would think that.”

“Are you kidding me?” York says incredulously. He looks at Washington out of the corner of his eye, smile falling off his face when he sees Wash means it. “Oh, come on! You two are trading nightmares for God’s sake!”

"We're not trading nightmares," Washington protests. He shakes his head. "We're just...commiserating over the fact that we both have them. That's all. There's nothing more to it. We're just--"

"Tickets 31 and 32!"

"--friends," Washington continues distractedly. The conversation dies abruptly as they stop to claim their food, and after saying thanks and grabbing their stuff, they wander to the park across the street to continue their usual game of mental chess.

They settle down at the stone chessboard and peer down at the table as they pull their food out of their bags. “It’s my go, right?” York asks. He scratches his head when Washington nods, squinting down at the board in front of them. “Uh, okay. Then…knight to G4.”

“You can’t do that,” Wash points out, “Knights don’t move in a straight line.”

York waggles his wrapped cheesesteak in Wash’s direction. “Oh no,” he says smugly, “You’re not gonna catch me like that again. I went in an L-shaped pattern like I was supposed to.”

“You can’t do that from E7!”

“I wasn’t on E7!” York protests, “I was on E3!”

They pause and look at each other suspiciously. On the one hand, York isn’t the type to cheat unless they’re playing Go Fish or Jenga. On the other hand, Washington is relatively sure that his memory is sharper than York’s.

“Fine,” Washington says as he breaks his bagel in half, “You’re completely wrong, but for the sake of your ego I’ll let you have this one.” He ignores York’s scoff and studies the board carefully, trying to figure out the best plan of attack.

After a minute has passed and Washington has done nothing but chew on his food, York balls up his napkin and throws it at his face.  It bounces off his forehead and falls to the table. “Well?” York teases, “Did I ruin your whole strategy with that one or what?”

“No,” Wash says sharply, “I just…”

“You just what?”

Washington takes another bite to keep from having to respond immediately, but York waits him out with a smug look on his face that makes Wash want to throw something at him. “I don’t remember where I put my rook,” he forces out irritably.

York throws his head back and laughs.

He feels a flush spread across his cheeks and burn his ears. Not for the first time, Washington regrets having a body that blushes as easily as his. No matter how impassive he makes his face, his skin always manages to give him away when he wants it to least.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” York says with a grin, “I never remember where any of my pieces are when we play this game. I just pretend I do to mess with you. I was wondering how long I could pull it off before you finally figured out what I was doing.”

All Washington can do is sputter in disbelief as York leans back in his chair without even bothering to disguise his triumphant glee. “You were—but I was—but we’ve been playing for weeks!”

“Yeah, you were being pretty oblivious about it.”

“You are the worst friend ever,” Washington says crossly, “Of all time. I knew we should’ve been playing with real pieces.” Or better yet, forgetting York altogether and having lunch with Connie or Maine instead.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Wash,” York replies, “I know I'm not as great as Tucker, but—"

"Would you stop that?" Washington asks in exasperation, "I just asked you how you deal with nightmares! Don’t act like that means any more than it does, because I am fine with the relationship we have."

To his surprise, saying so wipes the smile off York's face. Wash cocks his head, asking a silent question as York looks at him for a very long time—long enough for Washington to start to get uneasy. "Well that's real good news," he tells Wash, "Because I don't want you to get your hopes up over something that isn't likely to happen."

"Trust me, I don't have hopes to get up," Washington replies. He shakes his head firmly, mentally and physically dismissing the idea. "Yes, I'm attracted to him, but that's all there is to it. I can promise you that." He knows better than that—he's always known better than that. Connie was the sole exception to the rule.

"We're just friends," Washington tells him, "I don't feel that way about him."

Instead of answering, York tilts his head back until he’s looking at the sky through the trees.“We were worried about you for awhile there,” he says after a minute. His voice is so unexpectedly solemn that it sends a jolt up Wash’s spine that has him freezing in place.

“What do you mean?” Wash asks hesitantly.

He gets a shrug in reply; another attempt at being casual that York can’t quite pull off this time. “It was…after Doc left, you kept acting—it was like you didn’t want to be happy anymore,” York explains.

That’s because he didn’t. He didn’t want to be happy. He didn’t want to move on. He wanted to wallow, wanted to simmer, wanted to hold on to his hurt and discontent until the world went back to making sense. He wanted to clutch it tight to his chest with both hands because when he tried to do anything else it felt like a betrayal.

It was pathetic.

Maybe he should be glad Tucker doesn’t remember a thing about that night on the roof. Sometimes he wishes everyone could forget the way he was back then.

York’s fingers drum against the stone table; a familiar gesture he only makes when he's upset and doesn't want anyone to know.  “I thought it would be worse when Doc showed up to the party."

He huffs, then, lips quirking up in a smile, and finally looks back at Washington. “But then here you come strolling in the next day with this grin on your face you could see for miles. It was like we all just breathed a sigh of relief.”

“It’s not the same,” Wash says, "I don't feel that way about Tucker."

"I know," York tells him, "But you could."

And Washington has nothing to say to that, because he knows—knows it like he knew it a year ago—that he could easily fall for someone like Tucker. He may have changed, but the sentiment hasn't, only altered itself with the passage of time.

“We’re just friends," Washington says again. He looks down at the empty chessboard and tries hard to ignore the question in his voice. "You don’t have to worry about me. I know better."

Things between him and Tucker are fine just the way they are.

 

* * *

 

The only problem is that they don't sit in his car and talk anymore.

They _used_ to. They used to do it all the time back when Tucker was sleeping well. They would chat as they walked out of the building after a session and neither would want the conversation to end, so naturally they would stick around just a little longer.

And if Tucker was feeling cold, well, the car was the perfect place to be.

When they walk out of the building the next night, Washington holds his breath to see what happens, waiting to see if anything's changed, waiting to see if the return to old ways will finally bring back the familiar routine.

He's disappointed to find that it doesn't.

"Yeah, so I'll see you," Tucker says when they arrive at the parking lot. He leans against the side of Wash's car door, body already angled for escape and two seconds away from sprinting off. If Wash doesn't say say something he's sure to leave.

"How have your nightmares been lately?" he asks abruptly.

Tucker startles. "My what?"

“Your nightmares?" Wash reminds him. He shifts awkwardly, one hand digging in his pocket just to have something to do. "The ones you've been having lately?"

Tucker's eyes go wide and stunned, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. "Dude, I'm not gonna talk about that shit with you," he blurts out, springing backward like Wash is gonna beat the information out of him. "Fuck no, you can't make me."

Washington forces his face to remain impassive, forcing back that hurt part of himself that wants to demand why. If Tucker doesn't want to share something personal, that's perfectly fine. It's his prerogative, and Wash doesn't want any part of him he isn't willing to give.

Only...

"You don't have to speak to me, but you should talk to someone," he says, feeling as though he can't help himself, "I know from experience that keeping things bottled up inside tends to make things explode later on."

"And what about you?" Tucker says defiantly, "You wanna talk about your nightmares?"

Washington freezes from head to toe.

“Yeah,” Tucker says, “I didn’t think so.”

Wash clenches and unclenches his right hand, then does the same with the left, waiting until they no longer want to turn into claws or fists or anything else that could do someone harm. He keeps them loose as he takes a deep breath, and then he looks Tucker dead in the eye and tells him coldly, "You wouldn't want to hear about the kind of nightmares that I tend to have.”

Tucker raises his chin. “Yeah, well, maybe you wouldn’t want to hear about mine either.”

Washington pauses at the assurance in Tucker’s tone, some of his own anger washing away at the idea that Tucker’s might be just as bad. He doesn’t really know, after all. Tucker could have been through all kinds of traumatic events. There’s no reason to dismiss his experiences just because he’s never been a soldier.

“I’m sorry. I never should have assumed…”

Tucker’s shoulders slump as he looks down at the car. “It’s not that bad,” he admits grudgingly, “I just don’t want to talk about it, you know?”

“I know,” Wash says, “Believe me, I’ve been there. If it weren’t for Frank egging me on, I never would have talked about them with anyone. He’s the one who convinced me it would help if I discussed them with someone.”

“Did it?” Tucker asks, “Because Doc is always talking about some touchy feely bullshit that nobody but him does, and half of the time I think he’s making some of that stuff up." He gives a little huff of exasperation. "Seriously dude, are 'feelings circles' even a thing?"

Washington laughs. "If they aren't, he certainly put up a good front for me."

Tucker scoffs. "And how'd that work out for you?"

Washington considers it honestly for a moment. It wasn’t a miracle cure or anything, but there was something to the idea that having someone know what you were going through could be comforting in a way. "It went...surprisingly well," he tells Tucker.

Tucker doesn't seem convinced.

Washington's eyes flit down to the ground as a burst of something like shyness flows through him. "He always helped me get back to sleep," he explains somewhat ruefully, heart knocking painfully around his rib cage at the reminder, "Just talking to him helped. I wish I could—"

He stops, but Tucker looks at him thoughtfully and Wash begins to feel himself flush a little under the regard. With an awkward cough he backs away, feeling as though he has said something more personal than he meant to.

"Well," Washington says as he fiddles with his car keys, "We should go. It's getting late."

Tucker leaps on the opportunity. "Yeah, and Junior's waiting for me at home, so—"

Right," Wash agrees immediately, thrilled for once to be cutting the conversation short, "You have your son and I have my..." He cringes, because his answer suddenly seems so sad. "I have my cats."

He misses Frank, then. He misses Frank more than he's missed him in months, and he knows that his longing is all over in face. Quickly, he turns to face the car door and fumbles to open it while Tucker frowns and pretends that he isn't.

"See you Monday," Wash says over his shoulder, then climbs inside his car without waiting for a reply. Before he can shut the door, however, Tucker stops him with a hand in the air.

“Hey Wash?” Tucker says hesitantly.

Wash swallows hard. "Yeah?”

“Next time you can’t sleep, why don’t you give me a text?” Tucker says. He fidgets a little, then shoves his hands in his jeans to stop himself. “I’m probably gonna be up anyway. And hey, might as well do something other than watch Sham Wow commercials.”

“I’ll do that,” Washington manages. He hesitates, then adds: "If you do the same."

"Sure," Tucker says with a indefinable look. His face clears a second later and goes back to the smirking confidence he so often has, comforting if a bit jarring to see. "Anyway, I'm gonna go."

"Goodbye, Tucker," Washington says, "Sleep well."

 

* * *

 

And maybe he should have hoped the same for himself, because only a  few days later Washington throws himself out of his bed with the phantom taste of blood in his mouth.

The cotton feels like a prison to him; he sits on the floor entangled in sheets, clutching his chest as he gasps for air, frantically trying to tug himself free with fingers still numb from the memory of ropes.

When he's finally able to think again, his first thought is of Frank.

He scrambles for the phone before his mind is even done making a decision, stretching with his feet still tied while his fingertips search the bedside table blindly, the faint glow of his alarm clock the only light source in the room.

Frank will know how to help him. Frank will know how to hold him, where to touch, how to talk to him to calm him down. Frank will say something ridiculous that will distract him from his dream. Something that he'll have to argue with or mock.

Something like, _"Gosh, that one must have been a real doozy. Why don't we try some deep breathing exercises? I hear they're really effective for calming people down. And also for pregnancy!"_

"I'm not doing Lamaze," Washington says aloud. But he breathes deeply nonetheless, in through the nose and out through the mouth, just the way Frank taught him to years ago.

Breathe in 1...2...3...

Breathe out 1...2...3...

He does it over and over as one hand fumbles on the table and the other fumbles to rid himself of the sheets. All he has to do is keep himself calm enough to make the call and then Frank will...

Frank will...

Frank will do nothing, because he isn't Wash's to call anymore.

His hand finds his cell phone just as he remembers and he lets it fall to the ground with thud, listening as it slides somewhere under the bed. Then he just breathes. Does nothing but breathe, because if he does anything else he might break apart.

And then he remembers what Tucker said and his hands are searching once again, diving underneath the bed in search of a thin piece of plastic and metal and glass.

Washington doesn't expect an answer, not really, but he gets one nonetheless.

"Wash?" Tucker says sleepily. There's a rustling on the other side of the phone. "Why the fuck are you calling me in the middle of the night? You better be lying in a ditch somewhere, asshole, or I'm gonna—"

Washington croaks, "I had a nightmare."

He waits for a response, but there's nothing over the other line, not even the sound of rustling or breathing to make him feel a little less alone. Just emptiness, and through that emptiness the familiar sting of a missed connection.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Washington closes his eyes.

But you told me, he wants to say. You told me that I could call. You made it sound like I could come to you. You made it sound like you would care. Over and over the words echo through Washington's brain, bouncing off the walls of his mind until he's inches away from spitting them out.

"This was a mistake," he says coldly—furious not at Tucker, but at himself. There are others he could've called instead; friends who would understand better, who would sympathize more.

"I'm sorry I woke you," Wash bites out, "I'll just—"

"So what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

The conversation shifts so fast that it leaves Wash feeling dizzy and disoriented. He's so surprised that for a moment he is unable to do anything but gape up at his barely visible bedroom ceiling. "I...what?" he asks in confusion, "What are you..."

"Junior's going to his mom's this year, so I'm gonna be going to the Director's for dinner."

Washington doesn't understand anything at all. He blinks rapidly, wondering if he's still in a dream, half-fearing that any moment the sound of bullets will come rushing back. Maybe he'll hear Tucker die this time. Maybe it won't be his old best friend.

"But I thought you hated the Director," he says numbly.

Tucker scoffs. "Yeah, so? I hate a lot of people, that doesn't mean I won't eat all their food. Besides," he says, "Church and Carolina need me there for back up."

"It's Thanksgiving," Washington points out, "What do they need backup for?"

Tucker snorts. "You've never been to dinner with them, have you?"

"Well no," Washington admits, "But it can't be that awful, can it?"

Carolina and Church are closer than any pair of siblings that Washington's ever met. They can practically read each other's minds. And Carolina respects the Director more than anybody he knows. Sure, Church can be somewhat acerbic with his father, but that's nothing more than the normal petulance of a father and son who are too much alike.

If the disparaging noise he makes is any indication, then Tucker apparently disagrees. "Nevermind," he says with a sneer in his voice, "Just forget about it." He gives a little unamused huff. "So what about you? You never answered the question."

The Director wants them to come to work the Friday after to discuss their long term plans for the upcoming year, so most of them aren't going to be able see their family this Thanksgiving. But saying that will only feed Tucker's distaste for the man, so Washington keeps his mouth shut about that.

"I couldn't get a flight out," he lies, "So I'm on my own this year."

"You're not hanging out with any of the others?"

He shakes his head, forgetting that Tucker can't see him. "North invited me and the others to his place for dinner, but I didn't want to intrude."

Besides, it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without his own family there, so odds are that he would only bring the mood down by moping around. Better to stay at home and not ruin things for everyone.

"So you're just gonna hang around your place being boring and shit? Figures."

"I'm not boring!" Washington says for what feels like the fiftieth time. In his outrage, he pulls himself free and off the floor, climbing to his feet in a burst of irritation. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because you kinda are, dude," Tucker says, "You hate sweet things and you like trees and you rescue puppies and kittens in your free time like you're trying to make everyone else look bad—"

"I'm not trying to make anyone look bad!" Washington protests, "And I fail to see why any of those things make me a boring person."

"That's because boring people don't think they're boring," Tucker tells him, which is the most annoying piece of circular logic that Washington has ever heard. "They probably think they're awesome people and that everyone wants to hang out with them."

"Four different people tried to convince me to go to the Thanksgiving party," Washington points out irritably. He'd glare at Tucker if Tucker were there, but as it is he just glares at the ceiling.

"They only invited you because they're used to your boringness and it doesn't bother them anymore," Tucker informs him, "I know that's the only reason I hang out with you as much as I do."

Wash rolls his eyes. "I suppose I should feel honored."

To his surprise, Tucker only laughs at that. "Yeah, whatever," he says easily enough, "Anyway, are you cool now or what? Because you don't sound all freaked out anymore and I'd really like to get back to sleep, you know?"

Wash thinks about how the sweat has cooled from his body and the way his heart beats naturally in his chest and he realizes that for all the insults and general surliness, Tucker has acted as the perfect distraction.

Washington smiles.

He only wishes he could return the favor.

 

* * *

 

He gets his chance only a few days later, when Thanksgiving rolls around to the tune of a phone call at eight o'clock at night.

Washington sighs and puts down the slice of pizza that was heading toward his mouth. He already knows who it is on the other line, so he picks up his phone without checking the name. "North," he says, "I appreciate the offer, but I'm still not coming."

"It isn't North," Tucker tells him, "It's—"

"I know," Washington interrupts, "Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

"Yeah, North, I got it," Tucker says dismissively, "Hey Wash, can you do me a favor? I need you to pick me up at the Director's house."

"The Director's house?" Washington repeats. He blinks rapidly, confusion rising up in the back of his mind. "But I thought you were having Thanksgiving dinner at his house tonight. Why would you want me to pick you up now?"

"Look," Tucker says, sounding more than a little upset, "I've been standing outside the Director's house in freezing weather for ten fucking minutes and I've had a really fucking shitty night. So can you come pick me up, or what?"

Washington only needs a moment to think it over. "Just sit tight, I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

Washington makes it in ten.

 

* * *

 

"Are you going to tell me what all this is about?"

"Nope," Tucker says, popping the p in a way that effortlessly signals that he's already done with this conversation. He takes a sip from the near empty bottle of wine in his hand. "I just wanna sit here and get drunk some more.

Wash gives him a skeptical look. "You want to sit here."

"Yup."

"In the car."

"That's what I said."

"Outside of the Director's house."

Tucker pauses to reevaluate that idea.

"I didn't think so," Washington says, already pulling out of the driveway before he even finishes his sentence. Tucker sulks a little, but says nothing in response, choosing to take another swig of his drink.

By they get to the end of the block, Tucker has finished the remains of the wine and has started searching Washington's glove compartment for more.

"Why would I have alcohol in my glove compartment?" Wash asks in exasperation.

"I don't know, dude," Tucker replies with a hint of bite in his tone, "Maybe I thought you'd know that when a guy asks to be picked up early from Thanksgiving dinner, he expects his friend to get him wasted."

Washington considers that for a moment, then reluctantly agrees. "Fair enough," he admits. That's what it would mean for most of the people he knows, anyway. Hell, that's what it would mean for him, to be honest, if he were ever in that kind of situation. "But that doesn't mean I brought any with me."

Tucker's shoulders slump in disappointment.

"But we can get some," Washington says hastily, "Most of the stores are closed right now, but there's a gas station nearby. They should have something that will get you drunk. Then I can take you home and—"

"No!" Tucker says with all the petulance of a young child or a drunken man, "I don't want to go home. It's too quiet there. That's why I went to the Director's instead." He glares at Washington even though he's done nothing wrong. "And to back them up. I'm not a dick."

"I never said you were," Wash points out carefully, "I just said—"

"I know what you said!" Tucker snaps. He sits there breathing harshly with his air coming fast, puffing like he just ran a marathon—and then all of a sudden, he deflates, head falling to the window with what sounds like a painful thud.

Washington hesitates before asking, "Are you alright?"

Slowly, Tucker shakes his head.

"Do you want to go to the gas station now?"

"Yeah."

Washington takes the first left he sees and gets them on their way.

Tucker calms down a bit once he sees that Wash is for real about getting him beer, but it still takes a while for him to open up. He'd rather fiddle with the music than talk about what's bothering him, and it's only once they're parked on the side of road and he has a six pack in his hands that he finally explains why he's so upset.

"This is Junior's first Thanksgiving away from home," Tucker says moodily. He plays with the tab he twisted off his beer, balancing it on the edge of his finger and catching it before it falls. "I thought it'd be cool because I'd get him for Christmas, but it just kinda sucks."

Washington takes that in for a second, finding to his surprise that he knows exactly how Tucker feels. "That's why I didn't want to go to North's," he confesses, "It didn't seem right celebrating without my family."

Tucker nods. "And then the Director started being a dick at dinner, acting like none of us are living up to our potential," he says, "Being creepy and telling Tex how much he admires her 'strength of character' and how everyone else should look to her as an example of how to be."

Washington winces. "In front of Carolina?"

"In front of fucking Carolina," Tucker with a nod. He shakes his head in disgust. "Church went off on him. Started yelling about how it wasn't anyone's fault that Tex was some kind of mutant shark creature bent on destruction."

"I'm sure Tex enjoyed hearing that," Wash says drily.

"Tex? Try _Carolina_ ," Tucker exclaims. He takes a long gulp of beer, chugging it down like a frat boy showing off. "Carolina started bitching about how disrespectful he was being, which only made Church start bitching about how he was only trying to defend her, and then everybody started yelling at everybody else."

"And they did this in front of _company_?"

"Company?" Tucker echoes. He snorts again. "There wasn't any company there." Tucker flails his hand in emphasis and spills beer all over the dash. "Oh shit, dude. Sorry about that."

Washington rubs his eyebrow. "Maybe you should slow down a little."

Tucker shakes his head. "I'm not drunk."

Washington's heard that one before. He looks at Tucker skeptically, noting the hazy look in his eyes, indicative of one too many glasses of wine with dinner combined with the beer he's drinking like it's going out of style. Sure, Tucker doesn't sound all that drunk, but Washington remembers last year clearly and he knows how convincing Tucker can be.

"I'm not drunk," Tucker insists, "I'm just tipsy. Some pancakes'll fix that up in no time."

"Pancakes?" Washington echoes blankly.

"Yeah, from the diner," Tucker tells him, nodding emphatically all the while. "You know, the one where we both—"

"I know what diner you're talking about," Wash interrupts, "I just don't know why you think we should go there."

" _Pancakes_ ," Tucker repeats as though it were obvious, "They have pancakes there that we can eat. And I know they're open on Thanksgiving, too, because Junior and I used to go there when he was small."

Washington takes a deep breath, ready to convince Tucker that breakfast isn't necessary, when: "Wait, really?" he blurts out, "You had Thanksgiving at a diner?"

Tucker glares, looking way more fierce than the question warrants. "My mom moved away when I was in college," he says defensively, "And I didn't know how to cook a huge fucking dinner on my own. Sue me."

Washington shrugs. He can tell there's more to it than that, but he keeps his mouth shut about it. He's  already put his foot in it enough for now. So instead of asking another too-personal question he gets them back on the road, driving them to the diner without another word.

Tucker is trashed by the time they get there.

"I want pancakes with gravy," he says while Washington finally finds a parking space, "Because it's Thanksgiving. And I want turkey too. And bacon on the side. Like a turkey club, but with pancakes."

"Sounds appetizing," Washington lies.

"I know, right?" Tucker says, "It's gonna be awesome."

And with that, Tucker pulls the door open and jumps into traffic without looking, nearly giving Wash a heart attack. "Tucker!" Wash snaps while leaning over the seat so that he can hear, "Just get on the curb, okay?"

He hops out in time to see Tucker nod, acting suspiciously compliant as he rounds the car. "Hey, Wash?" Tucker says cheerfully, all trace of his earlier mood gone, "Do you think syrup and gravy go together?"

Washington makes a face. "I really don't."

"Oh," Tucker says, looking a little disappointed, "Then do you think—"

Before he can finish what will no doubt be another devastatingly intelligent question, one of Tucker's feet catches on the edge of the curb, tripping him and sending him tumbling into Washington's arms.

Belatedly, he remembers that Tucker is a cuddly drunk.

Washington looks up to the sky for strength. "Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you planning on moving or not?"

Tucker shakes his head, rubbing the tip of his nose back and forth over Washington's collarbone. "You're warm," he tells Wash with a happy hum, "And it's cold outside, so I'm gonna stay here."

He pushes himself further into Wash's hold, arms coming up to wrap tight around his waist. The contact has Washington inhaling sharply. He tries to ignore how close they are, the brush of Tucker's hair and the faint scent of wine, but the small puff of air over his neck causes his stomach to clench in a pleasant way that he won't be forgetting for days to come.

"Tucker," he says again.

"Hmm?"

He brings his hand up and buries it in Tucker's hair, using the grip to gently pull his head away so they can look at each other. "Time to get some dinner, remember?" he reminds Tucker patiently, "Pancakes and gravy?"

Tucker pulls away of his own volition. "Oh shit, dude, I forgot all about that."

Of course he did, Washington thinks with a sigh. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn't have reminded Tucker at all. With a few short sentences, he could have convinced him to make his way home instead of watching him stagger toward the diner like it's going out of business in the next two seconds.

Washington reluctantly follows behind.

When he gets inside he sees that Tucker was right—there seems to be plenty of people here for Thanksgiving, and half of the booths are either piled with families or contain people who are there on their own. In that, he and Tucker seem to be the sole exception, but he doubts anyone will notice or mind, so they just grab a booth of their very own and sit there waiting for the waitress to come.

Tucker starts acting up the second she arrives. "Hey, beautiful," he says embarrassingly enough, "Is it hot in here or is it just me?" He blinks hard as she looks at him with a funny expression, then seems to realize where he went wrong. "Wait, no. I mean you. You're the hot one." He pauses again. “And me too. That's why we're perfect for each other."

Washington pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry about him. Really. Please ignore him. And don't worry about the menus, we already know what we're going to order."

"Yeah, we do! Hey, are you on the men—"

"Tucker!"

The waitress looks like she's seen more than her fair share of drunks hitting on her. With a pained smile for Washington and none for Tucker, she pulls out a notepad and prepares to write. "What can I get you two tonight?"

Tucker grins back at her with a flirty expression. "Can I have one Turkey dinner, one breakfast deluxe, one milkshake, and—hey, Wash, do you want anything?" he asks, looking over at him to check.

Wash shakes his head. "Just a water, thank you."

The waitress—Beth, her name tag reads—nods and scribbles it all down on her pad. "And how would you like your eggs, sir?" she asks.

Tucker leers. "With your number." he says, "And with you on—"

"He'll take them scrambled," Washington says hastily, and mentally adds a few more dollars to the tip. Beth's smile gets a little more pained, and the look she gives him is more sour than anything else.

"I'll get right on that," she says as she goes.

He manages to keep Tucker quiet as the drinks arrive, only needing to give a hushed admonishment for Tucker to keep his mouth shut long enough for her to go. Keeping him out of trouble, however, is a much more demanding task, one he barely manages until the food arrives.

"How are you still hungry after eating dinner at the Director's house?" Washington asks, marveling at the sheer quantity of food on the table. Along with the turkey, bacon, eggs and pancakes, Tucker's meal has come with sausage, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and baked macaroni and cheese. "You won't be able to eat half of this."

Tucker scrunches up his nose. "The Director started reaming Carolina out for her scores on the gun range," he says unexpectedly, "Talking about how she should practice more if she wanted to get as good as Tex is."

Before Tex got hired, Carolina was top rank in every category that wasn't a specialty. Top ranks in marksmanship, top ranks in martial arts, top ranks in...well, pretty much everything, because she's easily one of the best soldiers he's ever met. She doesn't have to be the best to be amazing.

"Anyway, nobody wanted to eat after that," Tucker continues,"I think Tex wanted to stab him in the face, though. York too. And Church. And me. Not Great-Aunt Erma, though. She still thinks Carolina's a floozy."

"I don't think you should be telling me this," Washington says.

"Why not?" Tucker says as he starts piling turkey and bacon on top of a pancake. A little bit of cranberry sauce gets on as well, but Tucker doesn't seem to mind, just folds it up along with everything else and takes a huge bite of his concoction.

Washington shakes his head. "I don't think Carolina would want people knowing about it," he points out, "I think she'd prefer it if—"

"This isn't as good as I thought it would be," Tucker says abruptly. He looks down at the pancake sandwich he's made, frowning at it in mopey betrayal, "We should totally get pie instead. Pumpkin pies, because it's—"

"Because it's Thanksgiving. Yes, I know." Washington says, already getting used to the quick change of topics. He sighs and gives a wave to the waitress, waiting until she's over to place his order. "Do you have any pumpkin pie?"

"Sure do," she says with a nod.

"Then we'd like to have a piece of it, please."

Tucker sits straight up in his chair, looking alarmed. "Two pieces!" he corrects quickly. He reaches across the table and and tugs on Wash's sleeve, giving him a pleading look. "Dude, you have to eat pie. I bet you didn't eat any all day."

"That's because I don't like pie," Wash says patiently, "I don't like sweet things, remember?"

Tucker looks like his world is ending.

Beth doesn’t look too impressed by the histrionics. "One order of pumpkin pie coming up," she says, looking at him instead of Tucker, "I'll be back in just a second."

"Thank you," Wash says.

Tucker reaches out a hand to stop her. "Wait!"

" _Thank you_ ," Washington repeats, giving her a significant look. She takes the hint and backs away, wandering over to one of the other tables and audibly asking if they're ready to order. Tucker looks boggled by her blatant disregard.

"Did she just ignore me?" he asks.

Washington tilts his head. "Don't think of it as ignoring you," he tells Tucker, "Think of it as paying attention to me."

"Oh," Tucker says with an uncertain look. He pauses, blinking slowly, as if unsure of what to think about that. "Okay. Then did you just ignore me?"

"Yes," Wash responds immediately.

"About _pie_?" he says, sounding outraged. He pauses, eyeing Wash mistrustfully. "Is it because I called you boring earlier?"

Washington pauses. "What?"

"Whoops," Tucker says, "Maybe I just thought it."

Wash is beginning to regret accepting that call from Tucker right now. "I can't believe I left home for this," he says with narrowed eyes. Technically speaking, though, that's a lie—the only thing he can't believe is that it took this long for him to feel this way.

Tucker shrugs off the implied insult. "I can't believe you did either," he says with a startling honesty. He takes a sip of his milkshake while Washington gapes, his gaze lowering to drink in an attempt to avoid Wash's stare.

Washington doesn't know what to say to that. Luckily, though, he doesn't have to think of anything at all, because Beth comes back with a piece of pie that quickly absorbs all of Tucker's attention.

"Wait a sec," Tucker says as he takes a huge bite of the pie. He hums happily and licks the fork, trying to be sexy and failing completely. "Wait, wait," he tells the waitress, "How many slices do you have left?"

"More than enough if you want another," she assures him.

"No," Tucker says, "But like, _how many_?"

She sighs, which seems to be a common reaction to a drunken Tucker. "I'll have to check," she responds, "But I think we have about a pie and a half left."

Tucker lights up. "Cool. Then I want that."

"That?" she echoes blankly. She falters, looking around uncertainly, then glances at Washington as if he can actually tell what's going on in Tucker's mind. Wash shrugs and the two of them look back at Tucker expectantly.

"The pie," Tucker says, "I want the pie."

"... _all_ of the pie?" Beth asks.

"All of it," Tucker confirms. He takes another bite of his pumpkin pie, looking all too pleased with himself for the idea.

"Tucker," Washington begins, "You really don't need to buy a whole pie—"

"Junior and I always eat pie for breakfast the day after Thanksgiving," Tucker says stubbornly, "We're gonna have to do it Monday instead, but we're still gonna do it. It's _tradition_."

And there's really nothing he can say to that, so Washington gives Beth a nod and tells her that they'd like the check. "Tucker," he says after she goes to get it, "Finish up your pie. It's time to go home."

Tucker licks his fork one more time and nods.

 

* * *

 

The drive home is thankfully not as difficult as their time in the diner. There's no need to worry about any distractions while he's driving; like last year, getting drunk has finally made Tucker sleepy, and he takes a nap for the whole ride home.

The real problem is getting Tucker up when they get there.

"This would be easier if you cooperated with me," Washington grunts as Tucker tumbles out of his seat into Washington's hold, one hand going around Wash's waist in a blatant mimicry of what happened earlier.

Tucker pulls away indignantly. "I am cooperating with you," he protests, "I put my address in the GPS, didn't I?"

"You did," Washington agrees, "But what have you done for me lately?"

Tucker scowls.

Something of the admonishment seems to get through his weary mind, however, because he listens when Washington asks for the keys, and walks himself to the doorway without getting distracted.

They get growled at the second they enter into the apartment.

Tucker starts snickering in his arms. "He _hates_ you."

"He doesn't hate me," Washington says firmly, "He just doesn't recognize me in the low light."

Somewhere in the darkness Epsilon hisses in response, an act which only makes Tucker laugh harder. "Uh-huh, sure," he says as he leans away from Washington, "Can't cats see in the dark or something?"

Washington doesn't fume, but he kind of wants to. "...nevermind that," he says instead, "Just lead me to your room so I can get you in bed."

"Bow chicka—"

"Don't," Washington says. That isn't funny with Tucker in his arms. It isn't funny with the way that he clings and molds their bodies together when they walk. It should be funny, but it definitely isn't.

Tucker quiets a little at his tone, though what he's feeling is nearly impossible to ascertain in the darkness of the room. Nevertheless, Tucker leads him on their way, guiding him down a hall whose only light source comes from a nightlight in an open bathroom. From there they take the first door on the left, opening into a medium sized bedroom.

Washington fumbles along the wall for a light, letting it illuminate the teal walls of Tucker's room. He looks around it for a moment, gazing at the dark bedspread, the airy curtains, and the relative neatness of the room. It's not what he expected from Tucker, to be honest, but somehow it fits him nonetheless.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have time to look around further, because Tucker takes three steps and promptly throws himself into bed, flopping face first into it and flailing around like he doesn't have complete control of his limbs. Washington has to physically turn him over so Tucker won't suffocate in the bedspread.

"Thanks," Tucker says, and pats Wash fondly. He scoots up clumsily until he's lying on top of the bed correctly, head against the pillow and everything. His eyes slip closed for the briefest of moments, and when they open again he tells Wash the strangest thing.

"Look!" he says, pointing up at the ceiling, "I can see stars."

Washington rolls his eyes at him. "I'm sure you—"

Oh. He can.

Not the way Washington thought he could, but there are realistic stars on the ceiling nonetheless. They cover it from edge to edge, sprawling over the surface in heavy clusters over black paint.

"Junior bought 'em for my birthday," Tucker tells Wash, "Saved up his allowance for like a month. It was pretty much a fortune for him. But he bought them because he thought they’d make my room look cool."

"And you put them on your ceiling," Wash marvels.

"Uh, _yeah_ ," Tucker responds, "What else was I gonna do with them?"

As wonderful as they are, his own parents would've found a way to convince him they would be better served in his own room for safe keeping. But here's Tucker with a ceiling full of stars acting as if his own choice was inevitable.

Junior is lucky to have him.

"I thought it'd look dorky like a little kid's room, but it's actually pretty cool," Tucker informs him. His eyes light up suddenly, and he wiggles on top of the bedspread, pushing himself over to one side. "Hey, we should turn off the lights so you can see them in action."

"That's alright," Wash says, "I don't need to—"

Tucker narrows his eyes, some hint of the regular him coming through. "Turn off the lights and lay down on the bed, Wash," he commands, "You're about to see some shit."

Washington hesitates long enough for Tucker to attempt to take the decision out of his hands. With fumbling motions, Tucker sits up in bed, swinging his feet until they hit the floor and bracing his hands against the bed in an attempt to push himself up.

"Don't move," Wash says hastily, one hand held out to catch him in case Tucker falls, "You weren't exactly steady on your feet when you tried to walk earlier. You're going to break your neck if you try it again.

Tucker grins as he climbs to his feet. "Then turn off the light," he says as he sways back and forth, "Because I wanna show you how awesome it is."

Washington rolls his eyes, but does as he says, making his way toward the door in order to cut the overhead light. As he does so, Tucker reaches for a bedside lamp, turning it on at the exact same time that Washington turns the other one off.

Immediately, a dim blue light blankets the room in a soft glow that casts it in a dreamy light, adding an ambiance to the starlit room that turns the ceiling into something stunning. In the dark, it's beautiful, shining and bright, the universe coming into being above their heads, stars almost close enough to touch.

Awesome, as it turns out, is the right word for it.

"See?" Tucker says in a low, pleased voice, "Told you you'd like it."

"I really do," Wash admits. He walks to Tucker, eyes never leaving the ceiling, and settles on the bed next to him, lying down with him to watch the view.

They lay there in silence for quite a while.

"I used to think he was pretty cool, y'know?"

Washington's gaze shoots over in surprise.

"After my dad died," Tucker tells him, "When I was still a little kid. He used to do all these nice things for me. Never even complained that I was over all the time, just kept on telling me stories when I couldn't sleep and making all my favorite meals." Tucker laughs harshly. "He said it was because we 'shared a common bond.'"

Washington swallows hard. "Tucker..."

Tucker's head lolls on top of the pillow as he lazily turning his gaze toward the ceiling. “I think I know more about their mom than they do," he says as he looks up at the glowing stars, "They used to hate me for that."

”Tucker, I’m sure they didn’t—"

He cuts himself off. The look in Tucker's eyes say enough: they're lost and lonely and filled with remembered hurt. Some part of that little boy still remains. "I'm sorry," he quietly says instead, "You never should've been put in that position."

"No," Tucker says bitterly, "I shouldn't have been put in a lot of positions." And then he bursts into laughter, a loud and cackling and _terrible_ sound bursting out of him like he can't help it. "Bow-chicka-bow-wow, am I right?"

And Washington can't help himself when faced with something like that, so he smooths his hand over Tucker's hair, ignoring the way his hand wants to linger, ignoring the way Tucker pushes into his touch. "Yeah, Tucker, you're right," he says, "You were right about a lot of things."

And maybe one evening shouldn't change his opinion of one person quite so thoroughly, but he knows now that he'll never be able to look at the Director quite the same way. The respect won't be there, nor the regard; Wash can't continue to be blind to his faults after realizing how how much they must have hurt his friends.

"I'm glad I called you," Tucker murmurs against Wash's wrist. Washington shivers at the touch, heat rising in his body as lips move gently over skin. Tucker's eyes are dark in the low light, dark and deep and filled with something dangerous.

Washington pulls away.

Tucker whines in protest, but he ignores it, forcing himself to move away until he's standing next to the bed. "You should sleep," he says haltingly, "By yourself. Not with me."

Tucker blinks up at him slowly.

"Alright," Wash says, "Alright, then goodbye. I'll see you..." Not tomorrow and not Saturday either, because he doubts that anyone will be in the mood for a barbecue. "I'll see you Monday at the gym."

"Mmm, yeah," Tucker says hazily. His lashes flicker closed for a brief moment, hiding those pretty eyes of his from sight. He opens them on a slow, soft smile. "I'll bring you some pie. Leftovers. You should eat sweeter things."  

"But I don't like sweet things," he tells Tucker for the third time.

"I know," Tucker says, "But I want you to have them."

Washington's breath hitches in his throat. He swallows hard, unsure of what to say, knowing only that Tucker couldn’t possibly mean that the way that it sounds. "I'll take a piece home with me," he says.

"You can take mine if you want."

Wash shakes his head. "That won't be necessary," he says, which only causes Tucker to frown, "I'm sure there's enough for both of us." But Tucker's still frowning at him, looking almost comically serious over a small piece of pie, and that's when Wash remembers how pointless it is to argue with a drunk man.

"Alright," he says, "Fine, I'll take yours."

Tucker relaxes immediately. "Good. 'Cause you're not boring. You just like, fuck, you look boring but you're not, you know?" His eyes go a little unfocused as he struggles to find the words to explain what he means. "And you act boring too."

Washington rolls his eyes. Leave it to Tucker to insult someone while trying his hardest to compliment them. "I'm going to go home now," he says, "Feel free not to choke on your own vomit and die."

Tucker scowls sleepily. "Feel free not to choke on a dick."

It's on the tip of his tongue to tell Tucker he never chokes, which is the exact moment he realizes that 1) he's been spending way too much time with Tucker, and 2) that it's really time to get home, preferably before he says something he regrets.

But when he looks back at Tucker to say his goodbyes once again, he's surprised to see that the man is asleep, mouth gaining open on a barely there snore.

"Tucker?" he says in a very low voice.

Tucker hums and shifts onto his stomach, one hand reaching out for the empty space Washington left behind. He frowns as if he doesn't like what he feels, inching closer as if that will get him what he wants.

And in his sleep, what he wants is to be closer to Washington.

Pleasure floods through his veins and leaves him feeling nauseous. The realization has him nearly keeling over, the knowledge of what he's been denying all along: that somehow, somewhere along the way, all of York's worries have been proven right.

Washington lets himself out.


	11. The Engagement Dinner

Tucker winds up sleeping through his alarm clock.

Twenty minutes through his alarm to be exact. He flings himself from the bed as soon as he realizes, exhausted body struggling to catch up with an exhausted mind that doesn't realize that he is still wrapped up in his sheets.

Naturally, he goes flying headfirst to the floor.

Tucker sighs against a stray dirty sock. "Okay," he mutters as he picks himself up with a groan of pain, "If the universe wants to stop it with this bullshit for a second, that would be really fucking great right now."

He's still grumbling inwardly as he darts into the bathroom, charting his battle plan all the while: two minutes to shower, two to get dressed and brush his teeth, a minute to get Junior out of the house, fifteen minutes to get him to school and another twenty to get himself to work.

Forty minutes at the very least. He can totally manage that.

"Junior, you better be ready to go," Tucker yells as he dashes into the hallway, "Because we don't have time for you to find your homework or brush your teeth or do your hair—wait, what's that smell?"

He skids to a stop in front of Junior, who is standing by the front door holding an uncapped travel mug in his hands. "I made you coffee," Junior says, "Because you were late and you didn't have time. You can drink it at the red lights."

Tucker looks down at the thick black sludge masquerading as delicious caffeine and then takes a long look at Junior's happy, hopeful face. It is without a doubt the worst coffee that Tucker has ever tasted in his life, but he takes long sip from it without wincing and he smiles when he is done.

"Thanks, Junior," he says fondly, "You're the best."

Junior beams.

He holds on to the memory of that smiling face throughout the drive to work, holding it close as a constant reminder that the whole world doesn't entirely suck. It's a reminder that he desperately needs when he walks in the building and sees Palomo standing by his desk.

"Kimball was looking for you earlier," Palomo says as he stands by Tucker's cubicle like he doesn't have anything better to do. "She said she wants to see you in her office. I'm pretty sure she's mad at you for being late again."

Tucker scoffs. "Yeah, right," he replies, "Kimball doesn't get mad at anyone but Doyle."

She just gets really disappointed in people, which is almost worse, especially since she's one of the only people in the entire world who honestly believes that Tucker can be better than he is. If she really is mad at him, he doesn't know how he's going to react.

Tucker goes and pokes his head through her door. "You're not gonna fire me, are you?" he asks worriedly.

Kimball furrows her brow. "Have you done something recently to warrant being fired, or is this just a case of unnecessary nerves?"

"Uh...the second?" Tucker says, "Wait—no, yeah, definitely the second."

"You don't sound very confident about that," she points out. She folds her hands in front of her and looks at him calmly, clear brown eyes studying him with a patient expression. "Do we need to have a conversation after this one is through?"

Tucker shrugs. "Depends. Did anyone rat me out about anything?"

"I choose to take that as a no," Kimball says drily.

It's probably for the best. Tucker _cannot_ take another training seminar from HR. The last one had him and the rest of the office practicing respectful ways of talking to each other that didn't involve calling each other assholes. It was practically torture.

Kimball motions for him to sit down at the chair in front of the desk. He does so, sprawling in it to make himself more comfortable, and the two of them stare at each other for a few beats, trying to figure out where to begin.

"Look, I—"

"It has recently come to my attention that there have been a few distressing rumors about you going around the office lately," Kimball says at the exact same time, surprise shocking Tucker into silence.

Rumors? What rumors? The only ones he knows that are going around the office is the one about him having a secret girlfriend and the one about...he blinks hard, abruptly reminded of the one that was going around about Junior.

Oh _shit_. He should've known that'd get to her sooner or later.

Tucker shifts in his seat. "Okay, before I explain, Let me just say that this was all Palomo's fault," he says in a rush, "He's the one that started that stupid rumor in the first place. And I never actually took anyone's money. I was just—"

Kimball cuts him off with a wave of the hand. "I wasn't referring to the stories that have been blown out of proportion," she tells him, "I was referring to the outburst that caused those stories."

"Oh," he says, "But that was forever ago."

"Be that as it may, your performance lately has been cause for concern and I was wondering if it had anything to do with the unfortunate situation going on with your son," Kimball says with a grave yet compassionate look on her face, "I know you've already used up your days off for the year, but if you need any time off, I would be more than happy to..."

He knows she would be more than happy to.

Tucker shakes his head, feeling a sudden burst of fondness well up inside of him. "Thanks, but it's cool,” he says, “I don't really need—wait, are we talking _paid_ leave?"

"I'm afraid not.”

“Then nah, I don’t need it.”

She hides the tiniest smile in the world from him. "Well then, if you really feel as though you don’t need the time, there’s nothing more that we have to discuss.”

Tucker breathes a sigh of relief. “So I can go?”

Kimball nods.

Thank fucking god, because Tucker was definitely expecting to get reamed out for spending an entire month flaking out at work because of Washington. He wouldn’t have blamed her for it, either. He knows that he deserves to be yelled at.

"Thanks, Kimball," he says earnestly, "I promise I'll try not to suck anymore."

"That's all I can ask," she replies. And then, just as he turns to go, she stops him in his tracks with a gentle aside. "Oh, and Tucker? I hope the situation improves for both you and your son."

Tucker smiles and salutes her as he goes.

 

* * *

If only everything could be that easy.

Being late was only the tip of the iceberg; because of all the work that he’s got piled up, Tucker is forced to work through lunch to make up for it. No need to push his luck with Kimball, after all.

Unfortunately, that makes it two meals that Tucker managed to avoid, which means he’s going to be facing tonight’s engagement dinner with an empty stomach and a mouth that’s already prone to spewing whatever grumpiness he’s feeling. That doesn’t bode well for dealing with the Director. Hell, it doesn’t bode well for dealing with Wash, not with the way they’ve been acting lately.

Ever since what happened on Thanksgiving, they’ve both been jumpy in a way that has made it nearly impossible to work together. Between Tucker freaking out whenever he notices something weird about Wash, and Wash freaking out whenever they get too close, these recent workout days are...well, really fucking awkward is the only phrase that fits.

It sucks. It sucks major donkey balls, and he just wishes he knew why it’s happening in the first place. It’s not all on him, after all—Wash is just as much to blame as he is—and as far as he knows, Washington doesn’t even have a reason like Tucker does. Unless...

Tucker stops.

He didn’t tell Wash about his dreams, did he?

Fuck. Fuck. He better not have told Wash about his dreams. He can’t remember doing it, not really, but the later parts of Thanksgiving are a little fuzzier than the beginning. He could’ve done it. That would explain a lot.

Tucker feels his face burn red.

Yeah, he's definitely not looking forward to the engagement dinner now.

 

* * *

 

The terrible feeling only gets worse when he walks through his front door later that evening to see Junior waiting by the coat stand.

"Hi, Dad," he says glumly.

Tucker gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. Did something happen at school? Is some asshole fucking with his kid again? Did he get in trouble with Sheila? Fuck, did he and Theta have a fight?

He gives in to his first impulse and tugs Junior in for a hug.

"Hey, Junior," Tucker says worriedly, "What's up?"

"Nothing," he says sadly, "I really missed you a lot." He leans further into Tucker, who squeezes him tightly in return, "That's why I think you should take me to the party with you."

Tucker rolls his eyes as he lets Junior go.

"Please?" Junior begs, "I already did all of my homework and I—"

"No way," Tucker interrupts, "Not gonna happen."

Junior crosses his arms in the sulkiest way possible and looks up at his father defiantly. "But why not?" he whines like he's five instead of nine, "Everyone else gets to go! It's not fair. I never get to do—"

"You never get to do anything," Tucker finishes with a sigh. He leans back against the doorframe and lets his eyes drift closed for a second. "Yeah, I know. You've told me about a million times."

"It's true," Junior insists, "And you never tell me why!"

"I tell you why all the time!" Tucker protests.

"No, you don't!" Junior shoots back, "You just tell me why I can't go to the barbecues, not why I can't go to the other parties and stuff!"

Tucker feels frustration welling up inside. "Look, you can go to all the parties you wanna go to, alright?" Tucker says, "We can start _having_ parties if you want. But you're not going anywhere if the Director's gonna be there."

Junior looks at him unhappily. "But I like Dr. Church," he says as though that means anything at all, "He's nice to me, and he's always buying me presents and stuff."

Tucker gives a derisive snort. "Hey, he can buy you all the presents he wants as long as he sends them by fucking fedex, okay? Because I don't want you anywhere near him. Not after last time.”

Junior wrinkles his nose. “What happened last time?”

Last time, Tucker was stupid enough to accept an invitation for dinner with the rest of the family. Last time, he was stupid enough to go to the bathroom on his own. Last time, he came back just in time to hear Carolina of all people reaming her dad out for trying to stir up some "friendly competition" between Junior and Theta.

"Dad?" Junior asks uncertainly.

He blinks at the worry in Junior's voice and wonders at the kind of look that must've been on his face in order to cause that careful tone. "Uh, it's nothing," Tucker tells him, "Don't worry about it, okay?"

"Okay," Junior says, and leans against him again. He quiets down, and for a moment everything is peaceful again. Then the silence breaks with one more question. "Can you save me a piece of cake tonight?"

Tucker smiles and pats him on the shoulder, "Sure, Junior."

Junior nods, looking weirdly thoughtful, then tilts his head up and peers at him with such an unexpectedly cunning look that Tucker pulls back in sheer terror. "Hey, Dad?" Junior says, "If Dr. Church wasn't there, could I go to the barbecue?"

Tucker blinks hard at the question, wavering between being honest or not. "Maybe," he lies finally, "If you promise to stay away from the Director. But you can't go because your mom has you on weekends, not just because of him."

Junior nods again. "So if Mom says I can stay home, I could go?

Tucker snorts, because the likelihood of that happening is slim to none. Ever since she came back in Junior's life, she's been nearly religious about their time together. She won't give up a weekend with him unless she absolutely has to.

"Yeah, sure," he says, "You could go."

Junior flashes his dimples when he beams at the response. "Cool," he says, "’Cause Mom says I can go this weekend if it's okay with you!"

"Wait, what?" Tucker says.

He has a feeling that he really should've seen this one coming.

But instead of responding or reneging or doing anything that could start an argument, Tucker staggers over to the couch and lays himself down to rest. The engagement dinner is two hours away and he can only afford to worry about one of those things at a time.

Tucker chooses neither.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Tucker finds himself sitting with Church at the bar in the main area of the restaurant, warily eyeing the room as if they’re in a warzone. For what it's worth, though, it might as well be; the combination of people there is practically an assurance that something will go wrong.

Although some people are conspicuously missing.

“So where do you think Washington is anyway?”

Church's fingers twitch around the glass in his hand. "Tucker, this may surprise you, but I don't actually care about your fake boyfriend," he says irritably, "And frankly, I'm kind of getting sick of you talking about him all the time."

"I don't talk about him all the time!"

Church snorts at that, scoffing outright. "Oh please," he says, "That's literally all you fucking do." He lets his voice go high pitched in an insulting mimicry of Tucker. "Oh, no, you gotta help me, Church! Wash is having sex with people who aren't me! Boohoo, I'm so sad. Look at me cry."

"Shut up," Tucker grumbles, "I don't sound like that!"

And he doesn't care who Wash has sex with either, no matter what everyone says about it. He just doesn't want to picture it, that's all, and that's pretty much the only thing his mind is capable of doing these days. It has nothing to do with Wash. He would be freaking out just as much if his brain was forcing him to imagine any of his other friends banging. That's—"

_Fuck._

“Oh my god,” Tucker moans, body collapsing over the counter until his head falls against it with a hard thump, “Make it stop. I wanna get off this ride. Seriously, just gouge my eyes out already—or better yet, order me another drink. It's never too early to get wasted."

"Order it yourself."

Tucker turns his head and looks up at him pitifully. “I accidentally pictured Grif and Simmons having sex instead,” he informs him, “They had chocolate syrup smeared all over them. I think one of them had a riding crop. I don’t want to live in my head anymore.”

Church pauses, then swallows the last of his drink. “You know what, Tucker?” he says calmly, “I am going to order you a drink. I mean, what the hell, right? It’s on the Director’s tab anyway, so it’s not like I’m the one who’s going to be paying for it. But I want you to know one thing.”

“Yeah?” Tucker asks.

"You better have one eye on the door during dessert, because if someone mentions chocolate tonight and I start thinking about those two naked, I am going to reach over the table and stab you in your goddamn face.”

"Now you know what it’s been like for me this last month!”

Church orders their drinks, calling out for two more beers as Tucker burrows further into the bar. He brings his arms up to rest his weary head on top, but the touch of a hand brushing against his neck is enough to startle him out of the doze he wants to fall into.

Tucker sighs into the counter. "Look—"

Carolina squeezes down hard in warning. "The two of you better not be getting drunk," she says mildly, "Not tonight. Not before dinner starts. Save it for the barbecue tomorrow."

Church enters the conversation with a scowl on his face that spells nothing but trouble for him and Tucker. "Yeah, well, guess what, bitch?" he replies, "We are grown-ass men who can get drunk whenever we want, so—"

With a burst of speed that no one sees coming, Carolina grabs her brother by the wrist and twists his arm around his back, subtly shoving him into the counter and holding him there as he desperately scrambles to get himself free.

"Okay, fuck, fine!" Church blurts out, "We won't drink anymore!"

"And?" she says coldly.

Church hesitates long enough to earn himself a yelp of pain. Tucker can't see what's happening, not really—Carolina is hiding it with her body too well—but he knows enough to picture the grasp she must have on the bare skin of Church's arm.

For all her fighting prowess, Carolina's a pincher at heart.

 _"And?_ " Carolina says again.

"And I shouldn't have called you a bitch!"

Tucker snorts as he swivels in his seat toward them. "That's for fucking sure," he agrees. Carolina hates that word almost as much as she hates being compared to Tex. Which is funny, because Tex doesn't mind that word at all. She and Church practically use it as pet names. Even Wash hates it more than her.

Speaking of which...

Tucker shifts uncomfortably on the barstool. He knows he's going to regret asking, but he won't feel better until he does. “Hey, Carolina,” he begins, “Do you know if Wash is going to show up tonight?”

Church rolls his eyes. “Oh, here we go again…”

“I just wanna know because it’s like almost seven o'clock and he hasn’t shown up yet,” he explains as he does his best to ignore Church, “So what’s up with that? Did he change his mind about coming or what?”

“Doc’s flight was delayed, so they were late getting out the airport,” she tells him, “He doesn’t know if he’s going to make it on time, but he thinks he’ll be able to get here before the appetizers arrive.”

“Oh.”

Tucker frowns.

Who offers to pick their ex-boyfriend up from the airport, anyway? Even if they’re friends now, it’s still weird as hell—especially since Doc knows plenty of other people who could’ve given him a ride if he needed one. He didn’t need to rely on his ex-boyfriend for a favor.

But then, maybe Wash _wanted_ to help him.

Fuck, for all he knows, Washington never got over Doc in the first place. He could’ve been biding his time all along, waiting for an opportunity to swoop in and show Doc he’s still got a thing for him. O’Malley is staying behind this weekend, isn’t he? So now would be the perfect time to get Doc alone and romance the fuck out of him with his penis.

It could happen.

Carolina watches him.

“What?” Tucker asks warily, “Why are you looking at me that way?”

Her eyes narrow and she leans in closer, cocking a hip against bar in an attempt to intimidate him. “So I heard a couple of rumors lately," she says, "Rumors that you and Wash have been spending a lot of time together. Anything you want to say about that?”

Only that he's getting fucking sick of people talking about him all the time.

"Nope," he says, "There's nothing to say."

"Is that so?" Carolina drawls.

"Yeah, that's so," Tucker replies, "Dude, it's not like we’re hanging out after work or anything. We barely see each other—hell, we're barely even friends," he tells her, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

"So you didn't spend Thanksgiving together?" Carolina asks him, and an uneasy feeling begins to crawl up his spine, "And he didn't go with you to buy Junior's pet?"

"Okay, _yeah_ , but--"

"And," she continues mercilessly, "He didn't spend the entire last week of October bragging about how amazing it was that you made Junior's costume yourself."

Tucker is stunned into silence.

And because Church never learned how not to be an asshole, he starts laughing at Tucker right on cue. “Holy crap, Tucker,” he chortles, “I had no idea you were such a homemaker. I’m beginning to see a whole new side of you.”

Tucker flushes self-consciously. "Shut the fuck up, Church," he snaps, "At least Junior has a dad that cares about him enough to do that kind of stuff for him."

Church looks mildly offended. "Hey, man. Too far."

"Way too far," Carolina agrees flatly.

Her eyes narrow at him until they're just slits, but Tucker's too annoyed to be intimidated now. “Look, I don’t give a shit about what Washington told everyone, okay?" he says, "We’re not friends and we’re never gonna be friends, so everyone needs to stop getting on my case about it already!”

Church whistles. “I don’t know, Tucker, sounds like you’re protesting a little too—“

“Church, if you don’t—“

 _“Enough_ , both of you,” Carolina interrupts. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, visibly getting herself under control. “I only came out here to tell you that dinner’s going to start in ten minutes, so you two need to get inside now.”

Church groans.

Carolina's head whips toward him so fast that he actually jumps. “I don’t want to hear either of you arguing tonight,” she continues in a hard voice, “And I don’t just mean with each other. Do you understand?”

“Whatever,” Tucker mutters.

"Hey, I won't pick a fight if _he_ doesn't," Church proclaims, and it's very clear from the tone of his voice that he isn't talking about Tucker.

Carolina glares at them, unsatisfied with their answers but fully aware that they’re not gonna back down. “Both of you get inside now,” she says, then goes stalking off in her three inch heels before they can come up with a response.

Tucker glances at Church, who shrugs back in reply. “I can already tell that pre-gaming this night was the best decision of our lives,” he tells Tucker with a sigh.

“You’re telling me.”

They follow Carolina into the room at a leisurely pace, neither of them all that eager to get the night started. It’s a nice room, he guesses: understated and elegant while still being intimate, but for a dinner that’s supposed to be devoted to the happy couple it’s annoyingly unsuited to either of their tastes.

Carolina and York are more sentimental than this. They’re the type to hold on to movie ticket stubs and old love letters. If it were up to them, they probably would have had their engagement dinner someplace that meant something to them--someplace more like Errera’s, the old Italian restaurant where they had their first date.

But that’s not really the Director’s style. He prefers places that require suits and ties. Places with pretentious art on the walls and boring old music that no one actually listens to. And, well, he's the one who's hosting this thing.

Church nudges him in the side as soon as they get inside. "Check out who got invited," he says as he nods at someone across the room. Tucker follows his gaze to a little old lady who is loudly complaining to York about the table settings.

Tucker makes a face. “Great-Aunt Erma? Seriously?”

“Yup,” Church says with a nod, “Carolina nearly burst a vessel when she saw her here.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe she was really invited. Even for the Director, that’s pretty bad."

"Yeah," Tucker says, "Hey, wanna say hi?"

Great-Aunt Erma may hate Carolina for no reason, but for some strange reason she actually _likes_ Church. It's so weird. It's like she didn't get the memo that he's really an asshole...or fuck, maybe it's just because she's getting senile and still thinks that Church is ten.

Definitely one of the two.

"Uh-huh, you know what?" Church responds, "Just this once I'm gonna turn down the five dollars she'll give me to spend on candy in exchange for not having to deal with her bullshit. Just this once."

Tucker makes a face. "At least you get money," he points out, "All I get is whatever old lady candy she has in her bag. I'm sick and tired of always getting peppermint!"

"Heh. 'Tis the season," Church replies.

Tucker rolls his eyes at him. "So, what, we're just gonna sit on our asses until dinner finally starts? Yeah, that sounds—" He gets a glimpse of pale yellow out of the corner of his eye and ducks behind Church before he can stop himself.

"Tucker," Church says, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Not hiding from someone who isn't even Washington, that's for fucking sure.

“Nothing,” Tucker says as he does his best to look casual, “I wasn’t doing anything. Anyway, you're right. We should totally sit down now before everyone gets the really good seats.”

Church snorts. “Good seats. What good seats?”

“You know,” Tucker says meaningfully. He nudges Church in the side and nods towards one of the few people there he doesn’t know. “The good seats. The ones next to all the hot chicks, not the ones next to all the muscly dudes."

Church arches an eyebrow.

"What?" Tucker says, "You know what I mean. I'm just saying, if I'm gonna get caught in a spicy freelancer sandwich, I'd rather it be between that brown haired chick and Carolina's pilot friend than Reggie and the big dude."

Church huffs a little in amusement, lips curling up like he's got a secret he can't wait to tell. "Well, that's too bad for you, Tucker," he drawls, "Because the only sandwich you'll be caught in is the one between Great-Aunt Erma and North."

Wait, what?

"He made _seating arrangements_?” Tucker says as he stares at Church in unmitigated horror, “Seriously? What is this, fucking fourth grade? How evil can you get?"

Church shakes his head. “He didn’t make seating arrangements," he replies, "He made seating arrangements for you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Congratulations, Tucker," Church says sardonically, "You get to sit with the rest of the family."

"Oh, fuck _me_ ," Tucker exclaims.

His day just went from bad to worse.

 

* * *

 

A few minutes later, they all sit down to eat at the long table set aside for dinner. Tucker, like Church said, gets a strongly worded suggestion that he should sit closer to the head of the table—a suggestion he would be inclined to ignore if it weren't for Carolina giving him the evil eye. But since she is, he sits down anyway, focuses on his meal and tries to ignore everything.

Washington doesn't show up until two minutes after the appetizers arrive.

"I hope I'm not too late," he says apologetically, "I got here as soon as I could." He hurries forward like he expects to be yelled, fumbling to take off his jacket and scarf like he actually expects to be yelled at or something.

York waves it off like its nothing. "Don't worry about it, Wash," he says easily enough, "There's plenty of food left for you to nosh on before dinner."

Washington's lips quirk up in a smile. "Not what I was worried about, but thanks." He gives a little huff of laughter. "We ran into traffic on our way back into the city and had to sit in the car for nearly forty-five minutes. It gave us more than enough time to catch up with each other."

Yeah, because catching up with your ex is totally something that brings a smile to your face.

He glances over at Church to share a ‘are you hearing this shit’ look of commiseration, but Church just smirks and makes an “O” with one hand as he shoves two fingers on the other into it repeatedly.

"Fuck you," Tucker mouths clearly, then grabs his napkin and throws it at Church's head, earning a stern look from both Carolina and the Director. The exact same stern look, to be honest, which is eerie in a way he hates to deal with.

"Getting into trouble already, Lavernius?" Washington says as he strolls around the table in his direction, a faint look of nervousness on his face that Tucker can completely sympathize with.

He stops just long enough to clap York on the shoulder and hand a silvery wrapped present to Carolina, then saunters over to stand next to Tucker's chair, completely blind to the consequences of his actions.

Everyone is staring at them now. It’s like there’s a spotlight on them, forcing them to put on a show for everyone’s amusement. Anything he says to Wash right now will be picked apart and analyzed by all their friends.

Tucker's hands clench around the edge of the table. He hates this, he hates this, he hates everybody giving him shit about this. He hates Church's stupid asshole smirk and York's annoying knowing look and the way Carolina is staring at them through narrowed eyes. It sucks. It sucks a whole fucking lot, and screw Washington for thinking he can tease.

Washington looks at the claimed chairs around Tucker. The only ones that remain are at the end of the table, too far away for easy conversation. "Guess we'll have to cut down on the arguing for one night."

"Guess so," Tucker says coolly.

Washington blinks hard at the tone, an expression of hurt flitting over his face before he erases it from sight. He looks so visibly off balance by how Tucker’s acting that for a second Tucker almost feels guilty about it. But you know what? Fuck that. If Washington wanted to sit next to Tucker then he should've come on time instead of messing with his ex.

"I...fine," Washington says, "I just wanted to—"

“Look, I skipped breakfast and lunch, okay?" Tucker interrupts, “So if you’re so fucking eager to argue with me tonight, it can wait until after I eat my meal.”

"But I don't want to fight with you," Washington protests, "I was just joking. You know I was just joking." And then, because he isn't hyper aware of all their friends watching, he places his hand on Tucker's shoulder and makes absolutely everything so much worse. "What's wrong with you tonight? Did I do something to—"

“Excuse me, Mr. Washington,” the Director says frigidly, his piercing green eyes beaming into them from across the table, “But is there a problem here, or are you just attempting to ruin tonight’s dinner by causing a scene?"

Washington backs off without another word, moving instantly to stand at attention. "No, sir," he says stiffly, "There's no problem. I apologize for interrupting the meal."

"Good," the Director drawls, "Then please find your seat and do away with all this nonsense. Some of us have better things to do with our time than listen to latecomers make a fuss."

"Yes, sir," Washington responds.

Tucker takes an angry bite out of his appetizer instead of watching Wash go, but queasiness is rising up in stomach and replacing the taste of each bite with bile. It's hard to swallow, but he manages and takes another piece in sheer defiance.

Then suddenly Great-Aunt Erma nudges him hard in the side, causing it to drop back down to his his plate. "Is that young man bullying you?" she asks loudly, "Because I'm not afraid to take him over my knee—"

"Aunt Erma, please," the Director says. He's wincing slightly, though Tucker suspects that no one but the family would be able to tell. Church certainly can, if the way he's snickering is any indication. "No one is—"

Great-Aunt Erma hmphs disapprovingly. "Leonard, if I had asked for your fool-headed opinion on things, _then_ you would be allowed to speak," she drawls, "But as I did not, I suggest you keep your nose out of business that doesn't concern you."

All along the table, Tucker hears random freelancers choke on their food, but he's too busy watching Carolina tense up at the disrespect toward her father to focus on any of them for now.

"He was just trying to tell you that no one is getting bullied," Carolina says through gritted teeth, "Tucker and Wash were just talking."

Great-Aunt Erma snorts. "What kind of name is Wash for a young man?"

Tucker scowls down at his plate instead of scowling at her. He finds himself wanting to do something ridiculous, like yell at her or insult her name, but he bites his tongue on any mean-spirited response because of Carolina's earlier warning.

"It's short for Washington," he mutters instead.

He earns himself such a condescending look that it has both Carolina and the Director clenching their utensils as though they were weapons in their hands. "Well, bless your heart for answering, dear," Great-Aunt Erma says, "But that was a rhetorical question."

Tucker bristles. "Yeah, well you can take your rhetorical question and—"

York puts his drink down and hastily cuts in before Tucker can say anything too bad. "Wow, these appetizers sure are great," he says, "Aren't they great, North?"

"Sure thing," North replies, "Haven't had good shrimp in a while."

"And it's all thanks to the Director," York says.

Carolina hurries to follow his lead. "Of course," she says quickly, " It was very gracious of him to throw this dinner together on our behalf. We should—"

Great-Aunt Erma sniffs. "Brown-nosing does not become any of you." she tells them, "And furthermore, if he were truly being gracious, he wouldn't have hosted this so close to Thanksgiving and Christmas."

The Director draws himself up until he's sitting tall. "I believe you were the one who insisted we have an engagement dinner at all," he points out.

She gives him a smile that's all teeth. "And if you had even half the balls your son seems to have, you would've told me where to shove it."

Church raises his glass in toast to her, which only earns him a glare from his dad. Meanwhile, Tucker catches Carolina's eye from across the table. "Wow," he says in a voice heavy with sarcasm, "Can you believe I didn't want to come tonight?"

York smiles at him and answers instead of Carolina. "Hard to believe," he agrees, "Especially with everyone being sowarm and friendly."

"Don't you sass me," Great-Aunt Erma warns.

Tucker scoffs. "You _just_ finished telling everyone—

All of a sudden the doors fling open in a grand entrance and three people stroll into the room, proving once and for all that no matter how bad things look, they can always get worse.

"Church!" Caboose says, "I finally found you!"

Everybody turns to stare.

Caboose bounds forward to stand at Church's side, shifting impatiently from foot to foot until Church scowls at him to make him stop. "Wow," Caboose says, "That was the longest game of hide and seek I've ever played!"

"What the fuck?" Church says.

"Oh boy, I was beginning to think that I was never going to find you," Caboose continues blithely, "But then Donut said that he knew where you were going and that he could help drive me there. And then Sister came with us when she found out where we were going!"

"'Sup, bitches?" Sister says.

Tucker stares at her in confusion. "What the fuck?"

Church twists around further in his chair, turning to stare at them in disbelief. "Donut," he exclaims, "I thought I told you to keep him at home!"

Donut ducks his head sheepishly at the admonishment. "Sorry, Church," he says in a guilty voice, "I didn't mean to crash the party, but Caboose was getting really sad! He said you wouldn't play hide and seek with him anymore if he couldn't find you."

Church snorts. "I wouldn't play hide and seek with him if he _could_."

Caboose beams at him despite the implied insult, looking ecstatic to finally be by his side. "Oh, Church," he says fondly, "You are...you are such a kidder. This is just like that time you told everyone we weren't best friends."

"Which time?" Tucker asks.

Caboose gives him a scathing look. "Shut up, Tucker! No one was talking to you!"

"Indeed, no one was speaking to any of you."

Everyone pauses as they remember where they are.

The Director sits up in his seat, drawing attention to himself in a way that has to be practiced. “I am sorry if these people are ruining your evening, Carolina,” he drawls out in his heavy southern accent, “But as usual, your brother and his ill-mannered companions are spoiling the evening for all the civilized people at the table.”

And then four things are spoken in quick succession, tumbling over each other as if there were no beginning and no ending to the comments, each spoken within milliseconds of each other.

"Hey! We're not ill-mannered!"

"I'm not even sneezing!"

"I will totally snatch that creepy old man beard off your face if I have to."

The last comment is bad enough on it's own, but it's Tucker's that has people gaping and dinner completely stopping in its tracks.

"Fuck you," Tucker spits out angrily.

The room goes utter quiet. Everyone goes still and tense as they hold their breaths, each person waiting for where the cards will fall and wondering how the Director will deal with this disrespect.

Then, piercing through the silence comes his name.

"Tucker—"

Tucker shakes his head sharply. "Shut up, Wash, I wasn't talking to you."

But Wash has to try again, sounding almost desperate this time. "Sir, I'm sure he didn't mean that," he tells the Director, "He was clearly already upset when the evening started and—"

Tucker slams his hands down on the table and rises to his feet, catching Washington's eyes over the sea of heads. He looks alarmed, almost, on Tucker's behalf. Like there's anything for him to be scared about. But the longer they look at each other, the more that fades, turning to resignation before his eyes.

"Wash," Tucker says just to hammer it home, "Shut the fuck up and mind your business. I was talking to the Director."

“Oh, do calm down, Lavernius," the Director says, "I was hardly speaking about you.” He rolls his eyes when Tucker turns back to him, dismissing everything as though it's beneath his concern. As if insulting Tucker's friends is something he can just get away with.

Well, maybe he can. But not today.

"It doesn't fucking matter—"

Carolina cuts in with a warning look that spells retribution if he continues fighting with her father. "It's fine, sir," she says firmly, "The table fits sixteen anyway."

"That is not the point, Carolina," the Director says.

"Oh, damn it all, Leonard," Great-Aunt Erma says, "Anyone who can put that look on your face is welcome at my table. Let them stay."

The Director fumes for a good long minute, giving the others plenty of time to find their seats and start stealing appetizers from neighboring plates. Only then does Tucker sit down and try to calm himself. Only then does he try to move on.

He can already tell the rest of the night is gonna be great.

 

* * *

 

The slight creak of the restaurant door opening alerts him to the fact that he’s no longer alone. He knows it could be anybody: a total stranger coming out of the restaurant, or one of their friends who decided to skip out early on dessert like Tucker...

It could be anyone, but somehow he knows it’s Wash.

Tucker closes his eyes and breathes in the cool night air. "So is it me, or has this whole night been really awkward?" he says lightly, determined to keep things easy between them. Regardless of what may have happened tonight—or hell, even this entire month—Tucker doesn’t really want to screw things up with Wash.

And Washington must feel the same, because if footsteps could sound relieved, then his definitely would. They pause only briefly over sidewalk, then continue on more confidently than before, pulling him ever closer to Tucker until they're standing by each other's side.  

All at once, the tension between them dissipates into thin air. They share an almost giddy glance, and for a moment neither can do anything but grin at each other. Tucker’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he continues, saying, "Because I just finished listening to the Director talk about how much Tex looks like his dead wife and that's fucked up for like twenty different reasons.

“That does sound like an awkward night,” Washington says, “But I can definitely beat it.”

Tucker scoffs. “Bullshit!”

“I just spent my time trapped between Kaikaina and Donut while she tried to teach him her ‘world famous ping pong ball trick,’” Washington explains smugly, “Apparently it’s been very successful over the years. Donut says he’ll be trying it out this weekend.”

“Wait, what?” Tucker recoils in horrified realization, actually backing up a few steps as if that could put some distance between him and the mental images. “But how would he…why would he…” Tucker splutters incoherently, “Why would you _tell_ me that?”

Washington smiles at the expression of horror and dismay. “Just thought I’d spread some of the pain around, I guess.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Good to know you’re always looking out for me, Wash.”

They go quiet for awhile after that, but not in an uncomfortable way. It's just calm, or something like it, and it makes him feel steadier than he has all week. Unfortunately, with the steadiness comes the slightest hint of guilt.

"Sorry for snapping at you during dinner," Tucker says grudgingly.

"I shouldn't have gotten in the middle of it," Washington admits, "There's clearly a lot of history between you two and you were obviously already on edge at the start of the evening. Anytime you want to explain your _earlier_ behavior, however—"

"Why'd you tell everyone I made Junior's costume, anyway?" Tucker blurts out.

Washington startles. "What?"

Tucker's mouth slams shut in sheer surprise, some small part of him shocked at the words that just came out of his mouth. He didn't realize it before, but yeah. Washington telling people kinda bothers him.

"I mean, what the fuck, dude?" Tucker says as he begins to gain steam, "I only told you about it because you wanted to know, not because I wanted you to go around telling all your freelancer buddies about it like it's any of their fucking business."

"I didn't realize it was a secret," Washington says cautiously, "I never would have said anything if I had known it was."

"It's not," Tucker protests, "I just didn't want anyone else to know."

He only told Wash because he knew he could trust it with Wash—not because he's special or a better friend, but because he's easier to talk to about things like that. It's not that hard to understand.

Tucker grimaces. "And it was so fucking annoying, too, because Church started making fun of me once he found out, and then Carolina started harassing me about how much time we spend together like it's so fucking weird we hang out sometimes, and I was already having a pretty shitty day because I woke up late and—"

"Tucker!"

He stops abruptly, gasping for air. "Yeah?"

"Please stop rambling," Washington says, “I understand perfectly, so you don’t need to explain any further. And I’m sorry—I never should have assumed that what you told me was open information. You have every right to be angry with me.”

And okay, he knows it wasn't that big of a deal in the first place, but the apology is kind of nice to hear anyway. It makes him feel a little less stupid for overreacting.

Tucker knocks their elbows together in a companionable sort of way. "Yeah, well, I guess that makes us even, huh?" he says, "Turns out we can both be dicks sometimes. But I guess we should've learned that by now."

"Something tells me we'll need more than a couple of months to get used to that."

"Hey, it'll be three months in about a week," Tucker points out. It's kind of creepy that he knows that, though, so he changes the topic before Washington can realize it for himself. "So what are you doing out here, anyway? I mean, I know what I'm doing, but I thought you'd be inside with the rest of them, spending the Director's money on coffee and— _shit!_ "

Wash looks around in alarm. "What, what is it? Did something happen?"

Tucker swears again, annoyed with himself for forgetting. “I was supposed to save a piece of cake for Junior. I promised him I’d bring him some after he found out he couldn't come to the dinner tonight.”

Tucker scowls down at the ground. He was always doing things like that—making promises and forgetting them and then having to run around frantically trying to fix things or make up for it at the last minute.

"We could always go back inside," Washington offers.

"Yeah, I know," Tucker says with a sigh, "I'm just pissed at myself for forgetting about it." Especially after that talk from earlier. "Fuck, do you know how sulky he'd get if I hadn't remembered? He would've gone straight to his mom to complain about me."

Wash looks surprised.

Tucker blinks. "What?"

"Oh, sorry, I just—I guess I just thought that Junior's mother passed away for some reason," he admits. Washington ducks his head, looking flustered and embarrassed. "I'm not sure why I thought that."

Washington thought it for the same reason half of Tucker's coworker's did. "Probably because you can't picture anyone giving me full custody if there were other options available," Tucker replies.

"I never said that!" Wash says quickly.

Tucker shrugs, pushing back on the small bit of hurt that niggling inside of him. "Can't say I blame you," he says flippantly, "Even I didn't think I could handle it for awhile."

Those were the bad times.

Once upon a time, Tucker had been convinced that being a full-time student with a full-time job was easily the hardest thing he'd have to do in his life. But then Junior came along, and he figured out pretty fucking fast just how wrong he was. Being a full-time parent with a full-time job was infinitely and indescribably more difficult.

Suddenly Tucker went from mildly stressed to completely miserable, and he never had any time to himself; he couldn't, not with this tiny person hanging around who was constantly whining and crying and demanding attention and never seemed to care how exhausted he was. There were days he couldn't bring himself to care, days he didn't want to care, days when Tucker was so fucking tired of hearing his son scream that he'd turn up the TV to block out the noise.

He started thinking that maybe Junior would be better off with somebody else.

Wash is quiet for a moment, and when Tucker darts a quick glance his way, he sees Wash staring back at him with an odd look on his face. “No, I think I can blame myself for thinking that,” he says firmly.

“I told you, it’s not a big deal—"

"You take care of him all the time.  You buy him pets you never wanted. You make him homemade Halloween costumes. You put stars on the ceiling because he thinks it'd be cool. You talk about him constantly and you get guilty at the thought of breaking a promise to him, even if it's just to save him a piece of cake. Anyone who spends five minutes with you can tell you're a great father, Tucker. Junior's lucky to have you in his life."

The truth of the moment echoes around them. There was no denying that Washington meant what he said; his sincerity was clear in every word he spoke, as was the trust and admiration.Wash swallows hard and looks at the floor, visibly uncomfortable with the amount of emotion he has given away.

Tucker licks his lips. "Bet you're not surprised to find out his mom and I didn't know each other," he says, eyes flickering off to the street when Washington startles and looks his way again.

"What?" Wash says dumbly.

Tucker shrugs and does his best to look casual. "We had a quickie in a truck stop bathroom on my way back home for winter break."

Washington struggles for words. "That sounds...unhygienic," he says with a barely disguised look of revulsion on his face. Tucker can't blame him, really. That whole situation was pretty gross.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Tucker says, shuddering at the memory, “I wanted to take a brillo pad to my skin after we were done.” He shakes his head, wondering how he could have ever been so young and stupid. “Anyway, so we, y’know, _finish up_ , and I only get two steps out of the bathroom before getting cold-cocked by her boyfriend. She got knocked up and I got knocked out. Fun times for everyone.”

He makes a face, because this next part is actually pretty funny. “So I wake up and there I am lying on the ground, right? And then I look in my pockets for my car keys and discover she and her boyfriend stole my wallet and all my fucking gas money. I had to wait four hours for Church to come get me.”

Wash takes it all in thoughtfully and without comment, pulling off the non-judgemental thing pretty damn well if Tucker’s being honest. He's actually a little impressed.

“Then seven months later, she shows up at my mom’s house, waving around my driver’s license and yelling about how it’s really, _really_ important that she talk to me as soon as possible. Two months after that and I’ve got full custody of a kid of my very own.”

“Are you sure he’s...how do I put this delicately?”

Tucker huffs indignantly. “What, _mine_? Oh, please, he looks exactly like I did when I was a kid,” he tells Washington, ”But anyway, you’ll see for yourself this weekend. He’s finally coming to one of these things.”

Washington looks pleased. “Looking forward to it.”

Tucker has to look away again, because Washington definitely means what he’s saying. He wants to meet Junior, wants to meet Tucker’s _kid_. And Tucker's not sure he can deal with that right now.

So instead they watch the cars whizz by in total silence, neither of them willing to break the peace that currently resides over the moment. Then, in a hushed voice, Tucker murmurs, “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that story before.”

He peeks over at Wash out of the corner of his eyes and watches as a series of complicated expressions flit over his face. There’s astonishment, of course, along with a bit of amazement and pride, but there’s also an unexpected touch of fear and hope that Tucker can’t quite explain.

Tucker takes a step back.

“So, yeah,” he says hastily, “That means you owe me one—or, like, a million by now, whatever. So you should tell me something about you and Doc.”

Washington looks taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Tucker shrugs. He thought he was being pretty clear about what he wanted when he asked it, but whatever. “Dude, I tell you personal stuff all the time,” he points out, “And you never tell me anything. Now it’s your turn.”

Washington looks skeptical, but willing to to be convinced. “I see,” he says even though it’s clear he doesn’t, “And with all the things you could have chosen to ask me about, you picked my long-ended relationship with Doc.”

Tucker shrugs again, trying his best to seem disinterested. He’s just curious about a few things, that’s all. It doesn’t mean a thing. But Wash might not tell him if he pushes too hard. “Yeah,” he says, “Tell me why you broke up with him.”

“I didn’t,” Washington says with a frown, “He broke up with me.”

Tucker shakes his head sharply. “No, I know, but it probably didn’t come out of nowhere, right?” He feels a blip of what could be anxiety flit through him as he waits for an answer. “I mean, I bet it was going downhill for awhile and it just took awhile for it to implode. Right?”

Washington’s eyes flicker downward. He frowns a bit, as if trying to make sure he words it correctly. “No, it wasn’t out of nowhere,” he says, “But it was still a surprise, at least for me.” He smiles ruefully at his own ignorance, but there’s still a hint of hurt when he says it, like an old wound that still acts up from time to time—no longer fresh but still very painful. “We had difficulties, but I thought they would just…work themselves out, I suppose. But they didn’t.”

"And you still wound up staying friends,” Tucker says doubtfully, “You know that’s fucking weird, right? Most people can’t even be in the same room as their exes, but you still like Doc enough to give him a ride from the airport and talk to him on the phone a couple times a month and—”

Washington arches a brow.

Tucker flushes under his gaze. “Donut was talking about it. I don’t know why, nobody asked.”

Washington lets it go without question, but he watches Tucker a little more closely. “It was my first real adult relationship,” he admits, “And my longest lasting one as well. I wanted to get it right.” He tilts his head back to look at the sky. “But I never even realized how unhappy he was.”

He smiles again, but it’s less melancholy than it was before. “A few months after we broke up, he called me on the phone,” Washington says, “He said we needed to get closure with each other. He was right.” Wash shrugs his shoulders. “Eventually we started talking about other things.”

"Okay, but you’re over him now, right?" Tucker says, "You're not still hung up on him or anything? Because if you’re not, I could take you out—I could be your wingman, I mean! So we could go out. If you’re over him.”

“Yes,“ Washington says quickly, “I am, I’m definitely over him.”

Tucker swallows hard. He has to look away for a moment. They’re too exposed out here on the street—anyone could walk by and hear their conversation. Maybe that’s why his heart is beating overtime and his mind is pushing him to hide from sight.

Washington clears his throat. “If you’re interested, we could go—”

But Tucker will probably never hear the rest of that sentence, because Sister chooses that exact moment to shove her way out the door, laughing boisterously as she shouts, “Take your clothes off, bitches, we’re going skinny-dipping!”

He tells himself that he’s relieved.

 

* * *

"Somehow," Washington says, "I get the impression that this isn't exactly what the owners had in mind when they gave you the key to their house."

Sister scoffs and tosses her hair. "Pshh, house-sitting, house party, what's the difference?" she says dismissively, "And how are they gonna find out about it anyway? Is someone gonna call the cops on us?" She stalks toward him with narrowed eyes and pokes him hard in the middle of the chest. "Are _you_ a cop? You gonna rat on us to your little cop friends, cop?"

Wash looks around in bewilderment. “What? How does that—that doesn’t even make sense,” he points out, face scrunching up as he stares at her in confusion. “Why would I be a cop? You know where I work. You did temp work at the front desk for a month.”

“That sounds like something an undercover cop would say!"

York grins playfully, always happy to egg people on. "You know, Wash? She, right. That does sound like something an undercover cop would say. Maybe you should take your clothes off with the rest of us just to prove you're not."

"Not a chance," Wash says flatly.

" _Cop!_ "

Washington shoots a glare her way. "Would you stop saying that?" he says in exasperation, "I'm not a cop, undercover or otherwise, and I was just pointing out—"

Tucker seriously can't take another second of this conversation. "Dude, don't even bother," he interrupts, "You're just wasting your breath. She stopped listening to you the second you tried to shut down her party."

"I wasn't trying to shut down her party," Washington protests, "I was just—"

"—hey, who invited those dorks?" Sister interrupts. She frowns as she looks off into the distance, ignorant of the way she's causing that vein in Washington's forehead to twitch in annoyance.

Tucker is very familiar with that vein. He sees it every time he gets a little too creative when finding ways to avoid exercising. And now he's seeing it twitch again as Sister shoves Wash aside and stalks over to the front gate to greet Grif and Simmons.

“Relax, Wash,” Carolina says, “We’ll keep it down so we won’t disturb the neighbors and we’ll clean up after ourselves before we leave. No one will even know we were here. I’ll make sure of it."

She's calmer now that she isn't being forced to be grateful for a dinner she never wanted. Her jewelry is off and her hair is down, flowing in soft waves over her shoulder, and when York brushes it aside to place a tender, lingering kiss on her shoulder, she looks relaxed for the first time evening.

He glances away to give them privacy and feels his breath catch in his throat. Wash is looking at them, his eyes wistful and sad, a melancholy smile on his face that radiates loneliness in a way that feels like a punch to the gut. Tucker has to look away before he does something stupid.

Washington clears his throat. "Fine," he replies, "But if I have to bail any of you out tonight, I expect something in return."

"Deal," York says with a laugh.

And with a single, smooth motion, he backs away, pulling Carolina closer to the speakers and closer to him, all the while using a dancer's grace that matches Carolina's own. They wrap their arms around each other and sway to the music, whispering secrets into each other's ear to make the other laugh. They look natural together, and happier too, somehow giving off the impression that they're more comfortable in each other's arms than they are in any other place in the world.

Tucker's feeling pretty wistful himself.

A hand brushes against his, startling him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see Washington staring down at him with an expression that’s impossible to read. Wash tilts his head in question, and without another word exchanged between them, Tucker follows him to the pool-side. They pull off their shoes and socks in silence, carefully rolling up their pants to mid-thigh so that they can dangle their legs in the water without ruining their clothes.

From there, they watch their friends from their own little corner of the world.

Everyone looks a thousand times more relaxed now that the Director is gone. Most of them have already cracked open a few beers and at least half of them have started stripping down to their underwear. No one is actually skinny-dipping, but that’s more because a good chunk of the people here are related than for any feelings of shyness.

He could get up if he wanted to. He could spend the rest of the evening splashing around with Sister and helping Grif trip Simmons into the pool. But he doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is sit here beside Washington watching everybody else have a good time. He can’t explain why, only that it feels like he’s still waiting for something; for a confirmation, maybe, to something unsaid, or an explanation for something obvious.

...no, that’s not it.

He feels like he’s waiting for an answer to a question that neither of them asked. And bizarrely, _bizarrely_ all he wants to do is ask if Wash knows about his dreams. But five minutes minutes go by in perfect silence and he still doesn’t have the courage to ask that question. So he asks another, equally dangerous one.

“When we were outside the restaurant,” Tucker says quietly, “What were you going to say?”

Washington's eyes go wide in something like panic, and he visibly struggles to figure out what say. “It’s not important,” he says at last, avoiding Tucker’s eyes all the while, “I can’t even remember what we were talking about.”

“Oh,” Tucker replies.

Idly, he leans over and dips a hand in the water, fingers making figure eights in the small space between them. He watches in fascination as goosebumps rise with every unintentional brush of fingers against skin, spreading across Wash’s pale thigh until they disappear in the fabric of his pants.

Washington shivers in response.

All at once, Tucker becomes aware of how intimate they must look to everyone else. They’re so close they’re almost touching, elbows brushing against each other with every movement that they make. But neither of them is moving away and he can’t figure out why.

And he doesn’t have time to figure it out, either, because the next thing he knows he’s covered in water.

He’s stunned at first, stuck staring off into the distance in confusion while his brain tries to jumpstart itself, mind scrambling with hows and whys and whats, trying frantically to figure out what the hell just happened. And when he finally blinks away the fog, he’s ready with clenched fists and a glare.

He and Wash rise to their feet at the exact same time.

“What the fuck?” Tucker yells as he yanks his shirt over his head and throws it angrily to the ground. He stands over the pool, bare-chested and pissed as fuck. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Fucking Reggie. Tucker should revisit that ass-kicking he gave him years ago.

“Whoops! Sorry chaps, didn’t mean to ruin the moment,” Reggie says genially, “The one in the short-shorts challenged me to jump from the second-story window and this was the easiest place to land.”

Wash gives him a sour look. “Are you absolutely certain he wasn’t trying to get rid of you?”

He looks less pissed off than Tucker feels, but infinitely more irritated. With a sigh, Washington reaches down, plucks Tucker’s shirt up off the ground and begins wringing it out, all the while ignoring his own wet clothes. Tucker snatches it away and waves for him to focus on his own.

“I had considered it,” Reggie replies, “But I think the far more likely explanation is that he was attempting to get one or both of you to take your clothes off--which he’s about to succeed at, if you think about it, so I’d say it was fairly good planning on his part. Well done, short-shorts.”

Washington’s hands pause halfway down his shirt. Unerringly, his eyes flicker off to a corner of the yard and he frowns at what he sees there. Tucker follows his gaze straight to Donut, who grins when he sees Tucker looking and gives them both a big thumbs up.

“Nevermind, keep the shirt on,” Tucker says with a scowl.

When Wash doesn’t move fast enough for his liking, Tucker pushes his hands away and starts buttoning the shirt up on his own, all the while frowning at Wash’s half-naked chest.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Washington mutters under his breath, but his voice is soft and fond, and he lets Tucker manhandle him without putting up a fight, so Tucker just inches closer so that he can see the buttons better.

This close, he can smell the sweet scent of dinner mints on Wash’s breath and the barely there hint of cologne wafting off his body. It turns his fingers clumsy with nerves, causing them to fumble on the shirt and skim over sensitive skin. It’s the lightest of touches, but it makes Wash’s breath come quicker, and he inhales sharply as he turns his face into Tucker’s hair.

For a second, it feels like they’re alone again.

“Must not have been paying attention to the office gossip if I managed to miss this particular development,” Reggie muses thoughtfully, “Perfectly sorry, didn’t mean to ruin your little date.”

Tucker’s hands tighten on Wash’s shirt. “Why does everyone keep saying that,” he says resentfully as he turns around to glare at Reggie, “I’m fucking straight, okay? And it wouldn’t fucking matter if I wasn’t, because Wash doesn’t even like me like that!”

He hears the click of Washington’s throat as he swallows hard and Tucker immediately understands why.

“Oh,” Tucker says blankly.

Reggie eyes them both warily and begins backing up to the other side of the pool. “Ah, well, this is getting to be quite awkward, isn’t it?” he mutters to himself, “I suppose I’d better float my way to the other side of the pool, hmm? Avoid any more drama.”

Tucker can hear the splash of water as he moves away, but he can’t look away from Wash’s face. Carefully, as if afraid of startling him, he slowly lets go of Washington’s shirt and backs up a few steps, putting some distance between them.

Washington looks on regretfully. When he replies, it’s with a voice that’s edgy and strained. “Look, this doesn’t have to mean anything, alright?” he says urgently, “This doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

“Oh,” Tucker says again, “That’s great.”

With his wet hair clinging to his face, a half-buttoned shirt and his rolled up pant legs coming undone, Wash looks ridiculous and vulnerable and young all at once. He’s the picture of misery, soaking wet, half-dressed and so sad that Tucker can’t stand it.

It’s unsettling. It’s upsetting.

“Button your shirt,” Tucker blurts out. Wash’s head jerks up in surprise, but if he says anything in reply then he says it to Tucker’s back, because he’s already halfway across the yard before Wash can open his mouth.

He can’t take this. Not today.


	12. Fallout

Junior insists on wearing his Halloween costume to the barbecue so that Doc can see just how cool it is in person. Tucker doesn't even try to talk him out of it; after all, it won't do any harm to let him wear it and it's not like anyone at the party will bat an eye. And if they do...well, fuck 'em. They may be his friends, but Junior's his kid, and Tucker's always gonna have his back before anyone else's.

Besides, Tucker gets the impression that Junior's feeling a little shy about how many strangers are gonna be there today, so if he wants to wear a scary costume to make himself feel better, then Tucker isn't going to stop him.

Junior hovers anxiously by him as soon as they they arrive at the Director's house, tilting his smaller body behind Tucker’s frame until he's almost hidden from sight. They walk slowly down the path together just like that, Junior shuffling along with little baby steps that makes them take twice as long as they actually need to.

They practically walk into Sister the second they make it through the gate. She eyes Junior up and down and makes a funny face at what he’s wearing. “Weird costume,” she says admiringly, “What are you supposed to be, a dog?”

“I’m an alien!” Junior says indignantly, voice muffled from the mask.

“Oh. Cool. Are you an alien that looks like a dog?”

Junior snarls and swipes at her, all semblance of shyness erased with his anger. "What the fuck?" Sister yells as she jumps back in shock. She fingers her shirt in total confusion, staring down at the tear in it as if it appeared out of nowhere.

"Whoa, okay," Tucker exclaims, quickly yanking Junior away and turning him around, pulling the mask off so that they can have this conversation face to face. "What have I told you about hitting people?"

Junior's shoulders tense up and he shifts back and forth on his feet, unwilling to meet Tucker’s eyes.

" _Junior_ ," Tucker warns.

"Not unless I have an alibi," Junior mutters sullenly.

“Uh, no," Tucker says, "The other thing."

Junior sighs. “Don’t hit people unless they’re trying to hurt me.”

“Bingo!” Tucker says. “All that does is make you a dick and buy you a one way ticket to juvie, okay? And neither one of us knows how to make a shiv. I mean, I could probably get Tex to teach you how to make one, but that was gonna be your tenth grade birthday present and I don’t want to waste it.”

Junior leans against him and ducks his head into Tucker’s side. “It’s okay, Dad, you already got me a cat,” he says solemnly. He peeks out at Sister from behind Tucker's jacket. "Sorry I was mean to you. I shouldn't have tried to hit you."

Sister shrugs. "Eh, it's okay," she says, "It wouldn't be the first time a guy in a dog suit almost tore my clothes off in public. Last time was a lot more fun, though."

Yeah.

Wait, what?

Her face scrunches up in confusion. “But what was all that stuff about getting an alibi? ‘Cause, um, I’m pretty sure that’s not what you’re supposed to tell a little kid when he hits someone,” she points out, eying them apprehensively as if expecting another attack, “That’s definitely not what my mom told me to do.”

“Screw all that Disney Channel 'be nice to each other' bullshit,” Tucker says with a scowl, “I try to teach my kid stuff he can actually use in the real world. Why, what did your mom tell you?”

She thinks about it hard. “Umm, well she told me that if I hit them, I should make fun of them until they feel bad about themselves and then threaten to spread rumors about them if they told anyone what I did,” she says cheerfully, “You know, the usual.”

Huh.

“…Yeah, that’s cool and all,” Tucker says warily, “But I think I’m gonna stick with my thing instead, at least until he gets to high school.”

Junior puts his mask back on and growls in agreement.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Theta shows up to drag Junior into a game of...well, it looks like a strange mix of field hockey and hide and seek, but it's keeping Junior entertained and away from the Director, so Tucker doesn't really care about the details. His absence means that Tucker gets to worry about other things, like where Wash is and what he's going to say when they inevitable bump into each other.

"Tucker!"

He jumps a foot in the air at the sound of his name, heart beating faster in sudden panic as he whirls around to face the caller. For a second he thinks it's Washington calling him, but the voice is too high and cheery for that to be true, and sure enough he sees a man in a bright purple t-shirt coming his way when his eyes search the lawn.

"Hey, Doc," Tucker says when they're close enough to talk.

"Hey, Tucker!" Doc replies. He beams and moves to embrace Tucker in a way that definitely doesn't resemble a bro-hug, but Doc has done a lot for his kid over the years, so Tucker can put up with it for a few seconds. He pats Doc on the back a few times and then pushes him away until there’s some space between them. "It's really great to see you again. It's been so long!"

“Yeah,” Tucker says, “Junior’s gotten really big since you’ve been gone.”

“I bet!” Doc says happily, “Gosh, I can’t wait to see him again. He sounded so grown up when we talked on the phone over Halloween. And he managed to enunciate everything perfectly too—he must be working super hard!”

Tucker grins proudly. Junior still stumbles over his words sometimes when he’s excited or angry, but Doc is right—he _has_ been working really hard and now almost no one has trouble understanding him.

"He can’t wait to see you either,” Tucker admits, “Like I said, he’s been talking about it for-freaking-ever. He was worried you’d change your mind or that he’d miss you because something else came up.”

“No way!” Doc protests, “I’d never miss a chance to see Junior!”

Which is actually true, unlike some other doctors he’s known over the years. Doc’s always cared twice as much for his patients as anyone that Tucker’s ever met, and though he’d never say it out loud, he knows that he and Junior were lucky to have Doc even for a little while.

“Yeah, well, either way I’m gonna cut this conversation short so I can go find him for you,” Tucker tells him. Preferably before Junior starts sulking because he missed a few extra minutes in Doc’s presence.

"Oh!" Doc says, "Um, sure, I guess that would be alright. After all, there's plenty of time for us to catch up tomorrow at dinner." Doc glances around the yard for a second and then smiles back at Tucker. "Hey, I could help you look for him! I haven't been here before, but I bet I can find my way around really quickly."

“Yeah, cool," Tucker says with a nod, "Maybe you’ll bump into him before I do."

With Doc agreeing to search the yard—including the trees, because Junior likes to climb—Tucker decides to head to the den to see if he may have wandered there. It's probably the safest bet, to be honest, especially since North got the Director's permission to set up his Nintendo Wii down there. Odds are, that's exactly where they'll be, and sure enough, that's exactly where he finds them.

But they're not exactly alone when he does.

Tucker watches them for awhile, taken aback by how easily they're communicating with each other. Sure, Junior’s less shy when he's around Theta, but normally he's too self-conscious of his speech disorder to be himself around somebody new. But none of that nervousness is present at this moment. Junior sits there, face alight with eagerness, babbling to Washington as if they’ve known each other for years.

Tucker feels something in his belly twist at the sight.

But that's only a cold, or some food poisoning or some other bullshit coming on, so he takes a deep breath and does his best to ignore it, wandering over to where they sit with his stomach rolling all the while.

Washington catches his eye as soon as he draws near. Tucker struggles to keep his eyes on Junior instead of looking into those unnerving grey eyes. "Hey, guys," he tries to say casually, "What've you been talking about over here?"

Junior jumps in surprise and immediately twists around in his seat, crawling up on his knees to lean over the armrest and pull Tucker down until he’s hanging half over the side of the couch. “This is Theta's Uncle Washington!” he slurs excitedly, “He’s going to teach me how to skateboard!”

“Hi, Mr. Tucker,” Theta says shyly.

“Hey Theta,” he replies while absentmindedly detangling himself from Junior’s grasp. He frowns down at Junior, feeling vaguely confused. “Wait, what do you mean he’s going to teach you how to skateboard?”

Junior bounces on his knees. “Mr. Washington taught Theta how to skateboard last month, so now he’s going to teach me! Oh, and he liked my costume,” he exclaims proudly, “He knew I was an alien! He said it was cool and super realistic. “

“I also said I wouldn’t teach him unless you said it was okay,” Washington says quickly, but Tucker is too busy boggling over Washington skateboarding to pay attention to that particular reassurance. Because seriously, what the actual fuck? Who would’ve thought that a guy like Washington actually learned how to skateboard at some point in his life?

He tries to picture it: a tinier version of Wash around Junior’s age, with messy blond hair, skinned knees and a determined expression, falling off a skateboard time and time again but unwilling to give up. Or maybe an older kid—a teenager covered with acne, with too-long hair and gangly limbs he struggles to control.

Maybe it’s not as odd as he thought it was.

Junior grabs his attention by tugging on his sleeve. He looks up at Tucker hopefully, eyes large and round and only half put on for effect, but Tucker only shrugs in response. “I don’t know about it, little dude. He might be too busy to teach you.”

Junior’s eyes go wide in protest. “But he said—“

Tucker tilts his head and Junior goes silent. “Doc showed up while you were down here with Theta,” Tucker tells him, “He said he’s really eager to see your costume. Why don’t you two go upstairs and say hi?”

Junior forgets all about skateboarding the minute he hears about Doc. With a burst of speed and a limberness that only kids and contortionists have, he practically vaults over the couch in an effort to get to him sooner. Without so much as a goodbye for either of the adults in the room, he grabs Theta's hand and drags him out, nearly tripping over his feet on his way up the stairs.

And that’s the exact moment when Tucker realizes he and Washington are alone.

His stomach churns uneasily. Why is it the den? Why does it always have to be the den? But if it wasn't the den, it'd be the car or the parking lot or any other place they're left alone for more than a minute. It's like they can't help themselves.

“You were right,” Washington says, “He really does look just like you.”

Tucker turns to glare at Washington. “Are you using my kid as a way to get in my pants?” he demands tersely, "Because I can respect that, but I can already tell you that it’s not gonna work.”

“What? No, of course not!” Washington protests, ”Why would you think that? I was just trying to be nice!”

Tucker rolls his eyes. He was mostly just joking, but of course Washington would decide to take him seriously for once. “Whatever,” Tucker says dismissively, “Calm down, I already said I wasn’t offended.”

“Well you should be,” Wash says indignantly, sounding as if the very idea of it was a personal insult to his sensibilities. “What kind of person uses someone’s kid to get into their pants?”  

Tucker scowls.

It takes a moment for the look to register, but when it does Washington heaves a sigh and slumps against the couch. “Of course you do,” he says while rubbing a palm across his face. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Whatever,” Tucker says sharply, “You can bitch all you want about it, but the only fucking reason you’re upset about it is because you think you’re better than the people who do it.” He raises his chin defiantly, daring Wash to deny it. “Which is, like, _everyone_. Including me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than anyone, I just think that _you’re_ better than that." He rubs his temples, sighing in frustrated disbelief. “I don’t understand,” he says bewilderedly, “Why would you even have to stoop to those sorts of tactics in order to get a date?”

Tucker shifts where he stands, uncomfortable with the implied praise. For lack of anything better to do, he skirts around the edge of the couch to stand in front of Washington, avoiding his gaze the entire time.

"Who said anything about a date?" Tucker replies, "All I want to do is get laid, dude. Why do you think I came to you in the first place?"

Wash freezes beside him.

Tucker frantically waves his hands in the air. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he says, “I just meant—“

“Exercise,” Wash finishes hurriedly. “I understand."

“Right,” Tucker says inanely, and then blindly repeats it before finding his momentum, “Right. All I’m saying it that not everyone can have amazing eyes and muscles the size of boulders to get people’s attention, okay? Most of us just have to work with what we’ve got.”

Washington's face transforms before his eyes, the faint hint of nervousness disappearing completely only to be replaced by a look of baffled pleasure. He doesn't visibly flush, but Tucker gets the impression that the slow burn is spreading beneath his collar and hiding behind the soft and sensitive skin of his ears.

_Fuck._

“So how long have you been down here anyway?” Tucker says brusquely, changing the subject before either of them can go down that road, “Because if you were trying to avoid me then you were pretty fucking stupid to hang out with my kid, and if you were trying to avoid Doc, then congratu-fucking-lations, because you just wasted all that time for nothing.”

Washington sighs. “I wasn’t trying to avoid anyone. Theta cornered me not too long ago and asked if I wanted to play a game with him and Junior.” He motions to the television screen, where Mario Kart is currently paused. “We just got distracted from the game when the subject of skateboarding came up.”

"Oh," Tucker says. Of course Wash wasn't avoiding him. Why would he? Tucker just blew the whole thing out of proportion. "But, I mean, you're still nervous about Doc showing up, right? So you're probably gonna stick around down here anyway."

Washington gives a little huff of exasperation. “Why do you keep insisting that I should be avoiding Doc?” he says, frustration evident in his voice. “Whether you believe it or not, he and I have been friends for quite some time. I’m not avoiding him, Tucker, he staying with me. I drove him here."

Tucker stills. “What?”

Wash eyes him warily from his position on the couch. “He’s staying at my place while he’s in town,” he repeats, “So I couldn’t avoid him even if I wanted to.”

“So, what,” Tucker says slowly, “He’s just…sleeping on your couch?”

Washington nods as if it doesn’t mean anything at all.

But it does, it fucking does, because Tucker has slept on the couch of someone he once had sex with and he knows exactly how intimate it can be. He knows what it’s like to watch with heavy eyes as they pad into the living room straight from a shower, clothes still damp and sticking to their body. He knows that visceral desire that comes from the awareness that once upon a time you were free to strip them of their clothes and lick the remaining droplets from their skin.

And the rest of it too; the tiny, devastating pieces that remind you of what you could have had if you hadn’t given up on it. The parts that poke at you every day you’re in each other’s company. Doc gets to see Wash with messy hair and bare feet and sleep pants that slide down to reveal the sharp jut of his hips. He gets to bury his head into pillows that smell like Wash and fall asleep with that soothing scent in his nose. He gets to wake up in the morning and sit across from him at the table and feel that slow shiver up his spine with every brush of their feet beneath the table.

Everything they do will act as a brutal reminder to what Doc no longer has, and if Washington actually thinks that anyone could be faced with all that and not want it back then he’s either the biggest fucking idiot in the goddamn planet or that was his plan all along.

“Tucker?” Wash asks uncertainly, snapping him out of his dark thoughts, “Are you still—“

“You really expect me to believe that he’s just sleeping on the couch?” Tucker says derisively, spitting each word out as if every syllable is burning his tongue. He laughs humorlessly. “Oh, please. Are you sure you’re not just trying to replace that stick up your ass with something else? Well, better him than me.”

All of a sudden, the temperature in the room goes just below freezing. There’s no trace of any of the affection Wash usually has for him; instead, Tucker is forced to watch as Washington climbs to his feet and towers over him with eyes that are cold and distant. “I must not have heard you correctly,” he says in a low voice, “Maybe you should try repeating it for me.”

Guilt sits heavy in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs.“Fuck, I…fuck,” he stammers, cheeks burning hot with shame, “I didn’t…Wash, c’mon, you gotta believe me, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

A dark look comes over Washington’s face. “You didn’t mean to say it like that,” he repeats slowly, as if he can’t believe the words that just came out of Tucker’s mouth, “So how exactly _did_ you mean to say it, Lavernius? Was it supposed to be a _joke_? Are my feelings just a punch line for you?”

“They’re not, I promise they’re not,” Tucker says plaintively, “I didn’t mean to say it at all. I don’t even know why—I didn’t mean to say it at all.” He reaches out to touch as if his hands can explain all the things his mouth is struggling to say, but he's forced to watch unhappily as Washington jerks away before their fingers can make contact. “Fuck, Wash. Why would I say something like that on purpose?”

“I don’t know why you say any of the things you do, Tucker,” Washington says wearily, “And sometimes I don’t think you do either.”

Truer fucking words.

Tucker stares down at the floor in abject misery, desperately trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Well, he knows where it went wrong, he’s just trying to figure out why, because…

Just… _fuck_.

The minute he found out Doc was staying over it was like something in him snapped. The world went blurry with all these _possibilities_ and he was pissed at Washington for lying to him about how he felt and it all boiled over until suddenly his mouth was moving without consulting his brain. You think he’d be used to it by now.

“Look, if you have some sort of a problem with the fact that I—that I'm attracted to—" Washington says haltingly. He swallows hard, visibly forcing himself to continue. "I know some people only have a problem with it when a man is attracted to them, but—"

Tucker’s head shoots up in blind panic. “No!” he yelps hurriedly, “ _Fuck no,_ Wash—I don’t, I fucking don’t, I promise I don’t. I don’t have a problem with that—with _you_. That’s not my problem.”

Their gazes meet and hold tightly for a moment as he searches Washington’s eyes, desperate for a sign that he believes what Tucker is saying, and is so relieved that his knees go weak when after a moment Wash slowly nods.

"I’m going to go upstairs now,” Washington says slowly, “Because to be entirely honest, I really don’t want to be in the same room as you right now. But I suggest you spend some time figuring out exactly why you said what you did, because if anything like that comes out of your mouth again then you and I _will_ have a problem.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says dully, “Yeah, I know.”

Eventually, he staggers back upstairs and into the backyard, finding his way unerringly to Church's side as if he has a special radar for asshole best friends.

“Okay, so hypothetically,” Tucker begins slowly when they're close enough to talk, “Hypothetically, if someone accidentally said something that might have come off a little homophobic, what should they do about it?”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Church responds.

 

* * *

 

And because experience has never taught Tucker to keep his mouth shut, they're only halfway through dinner the next night before Tucker starts the interrogation.

"So," he says, because he can bite his tongue until it's bloody but it still won't stop him from asking this question, "Were you really staying at Wash's place this weekend? Because I can't see O'Malley being cool with that."

"What?" Doc says.

Both he and Junior look up curiously at the tone of his voice, but the floodgates have already been opened, and nothing can stop him from blurting every stupid comment out of his mouth that should remain unsaid.

"I’m just saying, it’s kind of a dick move—with Wash too, y'know? Because you dumped him, so he should be allowed to, I don't know, fucking say no if he doesn't want to hang out with his ex. Especially if he still has feelings for you—"

Junior brightens. "Ohhh, are you two gonna be boyfriends again?"

"What!?" Tucker says, giving Junior a betrayed look, "No!"

"But if they do, then Doc can come back home and live with Mr. Washington," Junior protests, "And then Doc could be my doctor again and I'd get to see him all the time! And maybe Mr. Washington would teach me skateboarding."

Doc reaches across the table and pats Junior on the back. "I'm sure Wash would love to teach you!"

"He already said yeah at the barbecue," Junior says, "But Dad said he might be too busy to teach me."

"There's no way he'd offer if he wasn't going to do it," Doc protests, "I'm sure he'd be willing to make time for you! But I can call him after dinner if you want—"

"Cool!" Junior exclaims, "And then you can ask him out and start dating him again!"

And that’s just fucking enough already.

Tucker rises to his feet and slams his hands down on the table. "No one is calling, dating, or getting taught by Washington, okay?" he snarls, feeling some dark kind of satisfaction roll through him at the look of shock on their faces. "End of story."

Junior looks at him mulishly.

"If it's head injuries you're worried about, then I'm sure—"

"It's not," Tucker says. He sits back down, feeling more than a little overdramatic for making such a big deal out of it in the first place. "Look, can we just finish eating, or what? I'm tired and I want to go to bed."

Doc and Junior exchange glances.

"But it's not even eight yet," Junior points out.

"Yeah, well, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night," Tucker grumbles. He was too busy worrying about what he said to Wash on Saturday and how it's going to affect their meeting tomorrow. He doesn't want a repeat of that time with the donuts. It wasn't pretty.

“Well, I don’t want to put you out,” Doc begins.

“You’re not!” Junior says quickly. He shoots Tucker a pleading look, silently begging him not to end the evening yet, and Tucker forces himself to remembers just how long it’s been since they’ve all seen each other.

Ugh. _Fine_.

“It’s cool,” he mutters, “I don’t want to fuck up my sleep schedule anyway. Just...keep all the Wash-talk alone for now, okay? I don’t want to fucking hear it. I don’t even want to fucking _think_ about it.”

Junior blinks. “But you’re the one who brought him up.”

Tucker doesn’t want to think about that either.

 

* * *

 

He can tell the second that he arrives for their workout on Monday that Washington is still pissed at him. It's obvious for anybody to see: his jaw clenches tight the second Tucker walks in the room, and his face is doing that inscrutable freelancer thing that makes him look just like a statue. It's intimidating at worst and disconcerting at best, and just the sight of it makes Tucker want to puke.

Wash doesn’t even stop to chat for awhile like they usually do; instead, he walks to the opposite side of the room and motions for Tucker to begin his warm-up routine, all without saying a single word.

It begins to wear at him fifteen minutes in, strangling any attempt at conversation until Tucker begins to cringe whenever Wash looks his way. He wants to say something to make it all better—to make it okay, but the silence is deafening and smothers them in its grasp and forty-five minutes go by without a word between them that isn’t “Just three more sets”, or “Raise that leg higher!”

Finally, Tucker can’t take it any longer, and bursts out with what he’s wanted to say all weekend, “I’m not weirded out about you being bi!”

“I believe you,” Washington replies impassively. He motions for Tucker to continue with his crunches and stares blankly until Tucker complies with an irritated huff.

“Whatever,” he wheezes out, because _fuck_ , even after a couple of months, these still hurt like hell at the end, “I’m not, though. There’s nothing wrong with liking dick. Even I like dick. I mean my own dick, not other people’s dick. Shit. That’s not what I meant! I mean—“

“Tucker!”

"…yeah?” Tucker asks in resignation.

“You should stop talking.”

Tucker steals a quick glance at Washington, whose face has finally, _finally_ lost that inscrutable look. He looks uncomfortable, like Wash is embarrassed on Tucker’s behalf, and Tucker doesn’t know what to do about the fact that it immediately makes him relax.

"Yeah, you’re probably right about that,” Tucker admits.

There’s a long pause in which Washington builds himself up to say something. Then at last, while carefully picking out the words, he speaks, “If you’re no longer comfortable being around me now that you’ve discovered that I have feelings for you, I can arrange for someone else to take over for me for the rest of the month.”

Tucker’s heart starts to pound at a ridiculous speed, and all that goes through his head is a constant refrain of _“feelings, feelings, feelings.”_ He can handle Washington thinking that he’s hot, but him actually liking Tucker is completely incomprehensible.

“You already paid for this month,” Wash explains steadily, kneeling down so they’re on the same level, “So it would be unfair of me to leave you in the lurch. I’m sure I can get one of the others to finish out the time we have left until you’re ready to find a replacement. Maybe North will do if, if I promise to make up the time elsewhere. Or York—I think you’d work well together. The two of you have a lot in common.”

He scowls at the thought of Wash being swapped out for someone new—and not just anyone, but _York_ , who is laid-back and sociable and everything Wash isn’t.“Oh yeah, we’ve got so much in common,” Tucker says sarcastically, “Care to name a few of those things, Wash?”

“Like…alright, nothing comes to mind, exactly, but—“

Tucker sits up until he's facing Washington head on.  “Look, do you really think I can’t work with someone just because they find me attractive?" He scowls and grabs at Wash's shirt, pulling him down until they're inches apart and their bodies almost touch. "Oh please, have you seen how hot I am? This kind of thing happens all the time!"

Wash's eyelids grow heavier the longer they stay that way.

They’re close enough now for Tucker to feel Wash’s breath on his lips and the speed of his heartbeat as his chest rises and falls. Against his will, his eyes dart down to Wash’s lips and then away again, flicking up to those dark grey eyes that are wide with unknown feelings. Tucker swallows hard and bites back the panic that wants to rise. His hand twitches and clenches in Wash’s shirt for only a moment before gently pushing him away to put some space between them.

Wash doesn’t ask why Tucker is freaking out, or why they’re still sitting so close, or even why Tucker’s hand is still clenched in his shirt despite having pushed him back only moments earlier. Instead, he stares at Tucker searchingly, locking their gazes together so that Tucker is unable to look away. It calms him, against all odds, and pushes back the fear that’s trying to take over.

"So,” he finishes quietly, “You don’t have to leave unless you want to.”

Wash nods silently.

Tucker clears his throat. “We should get back to work,” he says roughly.  It’s probably the only time Tucker will ever say those words of his own volition, but at this point he can think of nothing better to say. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if they don’t stop now. He’s not sure he wants to know.

Washington licks his lips, leaving them shiny and wet. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, “We can do that.”

The rest of the hour goes off without a hitch, but the tension is almost unbearable. It’s louder than Wash’s anger ever was, hanging heavy in the air like the stifling heat of summer days. It causes his veins to thrum and ache with a vibrant energy that seems so familiar to him. He can’t quite place it, or maybe he doesn’t want to, but it leaves him jumpy and nervous in the best of ways. It makes him want to be reckless, and maybe that’s why he says what he does as they’re getting ready to go their separate ways.

“You know, Junior’s been talking about skateboarding ever since you offered to teach him,” Tucker says casually, fixing his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of Washington’s chest. “I can’t get him to shut up about it. Maybe you could come over this weekend and teach him a few tricks?”

He peeks up in time to see Wash’s expression flicker between confusion and doubt before settling on stunned disbelief as he staggers forward in complete shock. “Tucker is this…are you…?” He takes a deep breath and tries again, “Yes, I—of course I’ll come over.”

Tucker’s face burns in response. “Cool, I’ll cook you something as payment,” he says in a rush, reaching blindly for his duffle bag. ”I’ll text you the time and address when I get home.”

“Tucker—“

“Well, I’ve got a kid at home that needs to be fed, so I really gotta jet.”

Tucker practically flees in embarrassment, heart pounding wildly in his chest as he tears out of the building covered in sweat and breathing harshly, not stopping for a second until he's safe and sound inside his car.

"Fuck. Me." Tucker moans.

He bangs his forehead against the steering wheel, wondering why his mouth only messes up around Washington. Anyone else and it says exactly what he’s thinking, even the stuff he probably shouldn’t be saying at all, but with Wash…with Washington, it’s like…fuck, it’s like it only ever says things he doesn’t actually mean.

He digs his phone out of his bag before he can talk himself out of it. Church picks up on the fifth ring, just when he’s starting to think it’ll go to voicemail. “What do you want?” he says brusquely, “This had better be good, Tucker, because I was in the middle of something a whole lot more entertaining than anything you could tell me.”

“Right,” Tucker begins slowly, “So, hypothetically—”

“ _Goddammit._ ”

“—what do you do if you tried asking someone to hang out with you on the weekend but it accidentally came out wrong and now you think that they think you asked them out on a date? And, I mean, you can kind of understand why they got confused about the whole thing, but you know it’s just going to make everything weird between the two of you again. How do you fix that?

“Do I have to change my number so you can’t call me up with this bullshit anymore? Because I will fucking do that, Tucker, I swear to god.”

“Church, c’mon,” Tucker pleads, “I really need your help with this.”

“You want my advice Tucker?” Church says irritably, “My advice is to stop fucking with Washington’s head before one of his friends show up to remove yours—and I don’t mean the one on top. Now, do you understand that, or should I repeat it using smaller words?”

“No. _Fuck_.”

Tucker is screwed.


	13. The Fall

Tucker absolutely hates cleaning.

He always does, even when he isn't the one who has to do the work. He hates the sharp chemical scent of it and the way it takes you twice as long to find things when you're done. He hates how finishing automatically guarantees that someone will trip at the wrong moment with a glass of grape soda and ruin all your hard work in a single burst. He hates it, hates every single part involved in it...so there's no reason at all for him to wake up with a sudden urge to clean, yet that's exactly what happens on Sunday morning.

He jolts awake at nine in the morning and grabs cleaning supplies before he even makes coffee, attacking the apartment with unexpected urgency, scrubbing furiously at the floors and furniture until the living room is spotless and even the picture frames sparkle. By the time Junior finally wanders out of his bedroom around noon, Tucker is fruitlessly attempting to get water rings out of the coffee table and wondering where his life went wrong.

“What’re you doing?” Junior asks groggily. He crosses his arms over the back of the couch and leans over to rest his head on top, yawning as he absentmindedly rubs the sleep from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I thought you said cleaning is stupid.”

“Yeah, well I’ve been feeling pretty stupid lately.”

Junior thankfully doesn’t question the statement, but throws a leg over the back of the couch, tumbling over it in a mess of limbs. He sprawls bonelessly where he lands among the cushions and promptly buries his face in his arms again, peering at Tucker out of the corner of his eye.

Tucker huffs and abandons his dirty rag with a sigh, casting it to the side in favor of gently pushing Junior to the side and sprawling beside him on the couch. He lies on his back and lets Junior nestle into his side, glad that for once the kid’s too tired to object.

Tucker runs his fingers through Junior’s hair. “Remind me to take you to a barber,” he says absentmindedly. He holds a long strand up to the light, marveling at how long it’s gotten. Junior usually prefers it kept cropped close to his hair, but lately he’s been fighting Tucker on haircuts.

“Nuh-uh,” Junior protests drowsily on cue, “I want my hair to be like yours.”

Tucker smiles down at him. “We can do that,” he says as he rests a hand on Junior’s head, “But if you want your hair to be as awesome as mine, you’re still gonna need to get it styled.”

Junior rests his chin on Tucker’s chest and peers at him through a curtain of curls. “But not cut, right?” he asks worriedly.

“No, not cut,” Tucker reassures him.

Junior nods, pointy chin digging painfully into Tucker’s chest. “Okay,” he agrees, “Then we can go to the barber if you want.” He muses on that thoughtfully, then brings his hand up to Tucker’s chest and rests his head on top. “Are you cleaning because Grandma’s coming over?”

Tucker resists the urge to cringe. “No, grandma’s not coming over,” he hedges, “But, uh, we are having company, so you should probably get dressed at some point. But, like, jeans, okay? Nothing too nice—you don’t want to give anybody the wrong idea.”

Junior looks at him in confusion.

Tucker rubs his temples, suddenly feeling a headache coming along. “I’ll take you out to get something for lunch if you forget I ever said that, okay?”

“I want McDonalds," Junior says immediately.

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Wash is supposed to come over around three in the afternoon, which gives Tucker just enough time to take Junior out and back again while still giving him plenty of opportunity to mess the house when he comes home.

He starts out by kicking his sneakers off in front of the door so it’s either the first thing someone will see when they walk in or the first thing they’ll stumble over on their way through the door. Then he throws his jacket over the back of the couch instead of hanging it up on the rack and sneakily urges Junior to do his homework in the living room, which results in papers and workbooks strewn all over the coffee table.

It’s perfect.

It still looks cleaner than it did before, but at least it doesn’t look like Tucker was freaking out in anticipation of Wash’s arrival. Hell, the only way it could look more effortless is if he went outside and got some dirt to throw on the windows in order to make them look grimy. Not that he thought about doing that or anything.

He glances at the clock.

2:14

Crap. He flops down on the couch behind Junior, who is sitting at the coffee table working on his math homework. “Dude, I think something’s wrong with the cable box,” Tucker grumbles, “Because I’m pretty sure it hasn’t changed since I checked half an hour ago.”

“You said the cable clock is never wrong,” Junior points out distractedly. He hunches over his book for a second and then frantically erases whatever it is he just wrote down. “You said it’s the same clock astronauts use.”

“Yeah, I think I might have been lying to you when I said that.”

Junior’s head whips around to face him, glaring fiercely up at Tucker with a look of enraged indignation that almost perfectly mirrors the expression on Donut’s face when you insult his rooftop garden. “You said I couldn’t stay up any longer ‘cause the clocks were always right,” he says accusingly, “I could’ve kept watching tv!”

Tucker scoffs. “For what, a whole extra minute or two?”

_“Yes!”_

Okay, he’s got a point there. Two extra minutes of TV-time probably seems like forever to a nine year old. “Okay, fine,” Tucker says says with a roll of the eyes, “Then call it revenge for all those times you woke me up in the middle of the night screaming about how hungry you were.”

“I was a baby then. All babies cry. I haven’t woken you up early in _forever_.”

Oh, sure, unless you count three weeks ago when he woke Tucker up in the middle of the night after accidentally flooding the bathroom by using way too much toilet paper. “Seriously, we have got to work on your selective memory,” Tucker tells him.

Junior squints at him through narrowed eyes. “So I should get to stay up later, right?” he says, ignoring the comment in favor of making his ridiculous demands, “Because you said I could stay up until nine, but I was really going to bed early.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tucker says easily, “I can just take out some of the extra time I give you to stay up on the weekends and add it on the rest of the week. So you can stay up two extra minutes on the weekdays and go to sleep ten minutes earlier on the weekends. How’s that sound to you?”

Junior’s scowl deepens. “But that’s not _fair_.”

“Neither is life, dude.”

Junior pouts and pointedly turns his back on Tucker, muttering something under his breath that Tucker can’t quite make out. “What was that?” Tucker asks, mockingly cupping a hand to his ear. Wordlessly, Junior points in the direction of the television screen.

The clock reads 2:16.

“Fuck!”

Why is time moving so damn slowly?

“Two minutes isn’t that long,” Junior says in a sing-song voice, just to pour some salt in the wound. He sounds way more smug than a nine year old has any right to be, but Tucker’s too busy being proud of him to complain about having those numbers thrown back in his face.

“You know, you can be a really petty kid when you want to be,” Tucker says admiringly, “It’s kind of impressive. Like, seriously, I don’t think you can teach someone to have timing that good. I’m pretty sure that shit’s innate or something.”

Junior’s head ducks down to bow over his workbook. Tucker can’t make out the expression on his face from where he’s lounging on the couch, but he would bet his life that Junior’s beaming into his schoolwork.

He’s proud of himself, too.

He should be.

It might not be what the parenting books say he should be doing, but Tucker’s not gonna raise his kid the way his parents raised him. Junior’s not gonna grow up learning that he should stay quiet when people are treating him wrong. He’s not gonna be taught that people automatically deserve forgiveness, or that there’s no point in getting upset because nothing’s ever gonna change.

Fuck that.

Junior’s gonna learn that the world sucks and life’s not fair, but that it’s still better to be angry than beat down and broken. Tucker’s parents tried to teach him something different. They thought he could stay safe by keeping his head down and never fighting back, but life taught him different lessons in playgrounds and school halls and he’s not gonna let his son get blindsided by it the way that he did.

Junior’s gonna learn that it’s okay to be pissed.

“We’ll get a better clock tomorrow,” Tucker promises. “You can have the full time.”

Junior leans against the back of his legs to let Tucker know that he’s been forgiven.

The room gets comfortably quiet after that, completely silent except for the steady scratch of a pencil against paper and the occasionally creak of the sofa springs whenever Tucker shifts to a new position. Time doesn’t move any faster than it usually does, but it’s easier to handle with the reassuring presence of Junior to soothe his fraying nerves. He dozes through the next half hour or so, faintly aware of the sound of Junior packing up his things and turning the television down low, but none of those sounds are enough to knock him out of the fog he’s in.

The knock at the door is what wakes him up completely. He doesn’t realize what it is at first, but it jerks him awake, sending him lurching off the couch in a half-dazed mirror of himself from this morning.  He stands in the middle of the living room and rubs his temples, head pounding from the sudden surge of adrenaline that comes from waking up too fast.

“It’s the door,” Junior informs him.

Tucker blinks in confusion. “What?”

“Someone’s at the door,” Junior repeats patiently. He points to the clock where the glowing numbers tell them that it’s six minutes to three. While he’s stuck gaping, another knock rings through the apartment, shocking him out of his stupor.

Oh, _fuck_ , he mouths in horror, because that sound means that Washington is only a few feet away. It means Washington is here early and Tucker’s only moments away from discovering whether they were on the same page about this not being a date.

“Dad?”

“How’s my hair?” Tucker asks anxiously, “It is, like, you know, is it okay?”

Junior shrugs. “It looks like you just got up.”

“Good,” he says, more relieved by that than he probably should be.

Junior looks at him strangely. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird!” Tucker protests defensively. “I’m just—I’m gonna go get the door, okay?” He motions for Junior to sit back down. “Stay here and finish your show. You only have a couple minutes left anyway.”  He keeps one eye on Junior as he backs into the entryway, so focused on making sure that he’s alone when he opens the door that he completely forgets about the trap he laid out earlier.

He trips over the sneakers in the middle of the floor, twisting his ankle in a sudden burst of pain that leaves him swearing irritably as he leans against the door. It dulls as the seconds pass, but the damage is done, and now Tucker has to open the door with bed-head, sleepy eyes and a flush on his face that’s visible for miles.

And, okay, he knows what that’s gonna look like, alright? He’s not a fucking idiot. So he waits just long enough to calm the pounding of his heart and cool the burn of his cheeks and then flings the door open as if he never hesitated at all, mentally crossing his fingers that he doesn’t  look as nervous as he feels.

Washington isn’t wearing date clothes. He doesn’t know why that’s the first thing he notices, but it stands out in his head like flashing lights or the smell of smoke. Wash’s jeans are a little tighter, maybe, and his t-shirt is a deep cobalt that shows off every muscle in his arms and makes his eyes look blue, but he’s not wearing anything that overwhelmingly points to a mistaken impression that Tucker asked him out.

Fuck.

In other words, it’s exactly what Tucker was afraid of seeing, because Washington is wearing some of the most perfectly executed stealth-date clothes that he has ever seen. It’s practically textbook: casual enough not to stick out, but attractive enough to grab someone’s attention and keep it.

Casual enough that it could still be meaningless.

“Uh, hey,” Tucker mutters, “You’re early.”

“Only by a few minutes,” Washington says distractedly.His eyes widen as they dart down Tucker’s body, sweeping over his legs and arms in subtle glances that do nothing to disguise the fact that he’s currently checking Tucker out. “You look—“

“Sloppy, right?” Tucker finishes quickly, ignoring the faint tinge of red that’s creeping up Washington’s neck. “Dude, you don’t have to tell me, I already know. I forgot to do laundry, so I just threw on whatever I had left.”

Whatever he had left being the rattiest, most threadbare clothes he could find: the ragged jeans from college with frayed holes up the leg and the tattered tank top that’s covered in grease stains because he only ever wears it when he’s fixing his car.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but when he looks at himself through Washington’s eyes, all he can see is the way the tightness of his shirt shows off the span of his shoulders and the new definition in his arms and chest; all he can notice is the way his jeans look plastered on and how the holes up his thigh allow peek-a-boo glimpses of the dark skin beneath.

When he looks at himself through Washington’s eyes, none of what he wears seems careless at all.

“Sloppy,” Washington repeats blankly, “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

Tucker’s hand clenches on the doorknob, hanging on for dear life.

Washington coughs when after a minute the two of them do nothing but stare. “So,” he begins awkwardly, trailing off with a nod of his head as if that counts as a whole sentence or actually explains anything.

Tucker stares blankly back. “So…?”

Washington shifts on his feet. “Are you planning on inviting me in or not?”

Oh. Right.

“Yeah,” Tucker says hastily, “Fuck, yeah. Come on in.” He peels his fingers off the doorknob and steps to the right, waving Washington inside. He rubs his neck sheepishly. “Sorry about that. And, uh, watch out for the shoes—I nearly broke my neck on them getting to the door.”

“That explains the noise I heard.”

Luckily, he doesn't have time to be embarrassed about that, because Junior pads his way into the hallway and honest-to-God squeaks when he sees Washington standing there. His eyes bug out hilariously and he looks so thrilled and shocked that the last of Tucker’s nerves dissolve on the spot, completely battered down by his affection for his son.

Maybe this wasn’t a bad idea after all.

“Mr. Washington! You’re here!” Junior shouts eagerly. He dashes over, skidding to a stop right before he barrels in to them. “Are you here to teach me skateboarding tricks?”

Washington smiles down at him. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Yes!” Junior shouts. Tucker laughs as he runs around them in circles, swinging his hips and twirling around with his arms raised over his head in his version of a happy dance, at last spinning dizzily into Tucker's arms. "This is the best present ever!”

Tucker catches him easily and pulls his back up. "Oh yeah?" he teases playfully, "What about that cat I got you for your birthday? Has it already been downgraded or what? And what about that cool sword?" He places his hand on his hips and pretends to scowl down at Junior. “And after all that trouble I went through to get it for you.”

Junior thinks about it for a moment, head cocked thoughtfully to the side.“It’s still a really, really cool cat,” he tells Tucker, “And a really cool sword. But I think you play with them more than I do."

Tucker cringes.

Why do kids always bring up embarrassing things in front of the people you least want to hear it? It’s like their only goal in life is to make their parents look like total dorks. “Dude, shut up,” he hisses at Junior under his breath. He glances hastily back at Wash and says quickly, “He’s totally exaggerating. I don’t play with them all that much."

Washington doesn’t bother to hide his glee—he displays it openly, eyes dancing in delight at Tucker’s misfortune while his lips curl upward in that half-smile of his that almost seems shy. “I’m not entirely sure I believe that,” he drawls out.

Tucker gives him a hopeful look. “But you’re going to pretend to anyway because you’re such a cool guy?” he suggests. He makes a face as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “Wait, what am I saying? You haven’t been cool a day in your life.”

Washington rolls his eyes. "You know, I never told anyone how you pretended to play with the sword that day we got Epsilon, but I'm beginning to change my mind now that I've got a few more facts."

Junior pulls away from Tucker in his surprise. “Why were you were with my dad when he got Epsilon?” he asks curiously, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I didn’t know you were friends.”

We’re not friends, Tucker wants to explain, but something stops the words from slipping off his tongue. It’s not true, anyway, even if it’s not exactly wrong either.  There isn’t a word or phrase that describes a relationship that changes from minute to minute. Or, well, at least not one that exists outside of Facebook.

“Wash is the guy who’s helping me get in shape,” Tucker says instead, “We’ve known each other for awhile.”

Washington smiles down at Junior and hunches over as if telling him a secret. “You know, I’m really not surprised to hear that he borrows your sword all the time,” he confesses with a smile, “Last time, he made sound effects and everything.”

Junior makes a face, but looks completely unsurprised by the news. “Yeah, he does that a lot,” he admits, wrinkling his nose slightly, “And he plays with my other toys too, like my guns and cars and stuff, but he never remembers to put them back in my room when he’s done.”

“That also doesn’t surprise me.”

Tucker scowls up at the ceiling.  His mom once told him that if god existed, he’d make sure that Tucker would one day have a kid that gave him just as much trouble as he gave her. Well, alert the fucking Vatican, because Tucker finally has the proof they’ve been waiting for.

"Okay,” Tucker says irritably, “If I knew the two of you were gonna spend all your time making fun of me I never would have introduced you.”

“But you didn’t introduce us,” Junior points out cheerfully. He bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning up at his dad in playful defiance. “Theta did, because he’s known Mr. Washington forever and he wanted me to meet him.”

Tucker grumbles, “You know what I mean.”

Washington makes a big show of shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he says teasingly, “I definitely have to side with Junior on this one. Theta was definitely the one who introduced us, not you. If I recall correctly, you weren’t even in the room with us."

Ugh.

Tucker rubs his forehead in pained disbelief. "Great. Just great. Five minutes in and you're already ganging up on me. I knew today was going to be a fucking headache the minute I suggested it."

"Don't be so melodramatic," Wash says.

"Dude, I fucking hate you," Tucker replies.

Washington has the nerve to snicker.

 

* * *

 

Even with knee pads and a helmet on, Junior starts bearing the mark of his lesson with Washington less than a half an hour after starting. He doesn’t quit though, even when he skins his hands and shins on the hard concrete; instead, he bucks it up and tries again, getting back on the skateboard every time as if he had never fallen at all.

“That’s the most important thing to remember, after safety,” Washington tells them both, “Not being afraid of the board. Hesitating at the wrong moment could cause an injury that could’ve been avoided with a little more confidence.”

Junior nods determinedly, hanging on to Washington’s words as if they were gospel.

It’s really fucking depressing to see.

Tucker watches them get along with increasing irritation, forced to be witness to every joke and story they trade throughout the afternoon. It’s all, “Tucker never cleans up after himself” this and “Tucker always tries to get out of doing things he already agreed to” that. It’s annoying in the worst of ways, but not for the reasons you would expect.

It’s not because they’re making fun of him. It’s because they’re getting along so well, bonding with each other as if they’ve known each other for years and years. It’s so fucking frustrating in the most petty of ways, because secretly he wanted them to hate each other. He wanted that first meeting in the den to have been a fluke. At least then, Tucker would’ve had a reason to call this whole day off, completely secure in the fact that Wash would never have a place in his and Junior’s life.

But no, that’s never gonna happen now, not with Junior staring at Washington as if he’s the coolest, funniest person in the entire universe bar Theta.

It fucking sucks. This would be so much easier if Wash were a dick.

“You’ve done really well today, Junior,” Washington says admiringly, “You’ll be doing tricks like Theta in no time at all if you keep practicing.” He holds a hand in the air and Junior immediately high fives it, beaming up at Washington like he personally hung the moon.

“I should probably get started on dinner,” Tucker says curtly, bristling when they both turn to stare at him in confusion: Washington because of his tone and Junior because he knows they never eat this early in the day. “Hurry up and pick up your things. We’re going inside in like a minute.”

Washington blinks hard, but nods easily enough. “Alright,” he says, “We can finish this up another day if that’s alright with—“

“No,” Junior interrupts with a scowl, crossing his arms defiantly as if that’ll change Tucker’s mind, “I don’t want to go inside yet. I want Mr. Washington to keep teaching me so I can catch up to Theta.”

Tucker sighs. "Dude, it's gonna be fine," he says, "You heard Wash—he's totally cool with teaching you another day, so you'll catch up to Theta in no time. All I'm saying is that right now it's time to stop for the day."

Junior clenches his hand into tiny fists. “But I won’t be as good as him,” he says fiercely, “Not if Mr. Washington doesn’t keep teaching me.” He fumbles on the words, endings trailing off into a mumble-slur that lacks enunciation and only makes him angrier. Because fuck that, right? If you’re gonna shout about something, you really want people to understand you.

And Tucker gets that, he really does, but Junior’s frustration has started to result in rage-filled tantrums and fights on the playground, and the school has already threatened to kick him out if they don’t see improvement by the end of the semester, so Tucker can’t afford to go easy on him anymore. He knows better than anyone that little black boys with behavioral problems don’t get as many chances as the other kids do.

“Look, you can be as pissed as you wanna be, but it’s time to go inside now,” Tucker repeats coolly, “So grab your skateboard and get going.”

Junior stamps his foot. “But I have to—“

“Junior,” Tucker says warningly, _“Go.”_

“ _Fine,_ ” Junior snaps. He picks up his skateboard and stomps up the stairs angrily, letting his skateboard hit every step on the way up as if that’s going to punish Tucker somehow. Tucker watches him go until he’s gone from sight, escaping into the building with moody mumbles and hunched up shoulders.

Tucker turns to Washington and eyes him warily.

Washington shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says in response to Tucker’s unasked question, “I told you before, I know how kids can get.”

“Yeah, but Theta’s not exactly the type to—"

“I have nieces and nephews too,” Washington explains, “Besides, Theta isn’t always an angel. Trust me, I watch him all the time whenever North and his wife need some time to themselves, so—”

“Bow chicka bow wow,” Tucker says automatically.

Washington hides a smile and looks up at Tucker from beneath lowered lashes. “That’s less of a joke than you might think,” he confesses slyly, “Don’t tell anyone I said so, but I wouldn’t be all that surprised if there’s another addition to the family in a year or two.”

Tucker waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “You sure they’re not racking up hotel fees for another reason?” he asks, grinning wickedly when Washington bursts out laughing in response. “Hey, you gotta keep the love alive, right? I think I read that in Cosmo.”

Wash stares at him in disbelief. “ _You_ read Cosmo.”

“Eh,” Tucker says dismissively, “What else are I gonna do when I’m waiting on line at the supermarket? Don’t take their sex advice, though—that always leads to really embarrassing trips to the emergency room and a bunch of personal questions you don’t want to answer.”

“I see,” Washington replies, completely straight-faced, “And just how many trips to the emergency room did it take before you finally stopped trying?”

Tucker pauses. “I don’t know…more than two, less than ten?”

Washington’s mouth opens and closes twice without him saying anything at all. When he finally speaks, it’s with an even mix of incredulity and confusion in his voice. “I’m not entirely sure what to say to that,” he admits.

“Oh, whatever,” Tucker grumbles, “Being adventurous is a good thing. Do you know how much stuff I’d have missed out on doing if I didn’t get frisky and risky? A shitload, dude. Like, so much kinky stuff, you don’t even know. So you should look deep, deep down inside yourself and remember what it feels like to have fun, because maybe then you’ll understand why I kept trying it.”

Washington rolls his eyes, looking completely unimpressed. “Well, if your idea of a good time involves trips to the hospital, then I’m not entirely sure that I want to find out what you’re like in b—”

He cuts himself off abruptly.

Tucker tries to figure out a way to end that sentence without using the word bed. He tries, he really, really does, and he hates himself for trying so hard because he knows it’s just a stupid joke. But he can’t help himself.

It’s different when it’s Wash. It’s different because Washington has a thing for him and that colors every single interaction with each other. That knowledge isn’t going to go away any time soon, not when he’s unable to have a conversation with the guy without worrying about sending the wrong impression. It’s not fair and it’s stupidly awkward, but that’s the way that it is.

So he backs up a step to widen the distance between them, feeling a twinge of guilt settle in his stomach when something like hurt flickers in Washington’s eyes.

“We should go upstairs,” Tucker mutters, nodding jerkily in the direction of the door, “We shouldn’t leave Junior alone too long when he’s like this. He might ‘accidentally’ knock over a few things just to piss me off.”

“Alright,” Washington says calmly, “Let’s go inside.”

They trudge up a flight of stairs as though they were climbing ten. Junior's already leaning up against the doorframe, glaring at the opposite wall as if the whole world is against him and being angry is his only means of revenge.

Junior doesn't wreck anything when they get inside, but then Tucker never really thought he would. Instead, he parks on the couch when they get in and sullenly watches whatever weird cartoon actually passes for entertainment these days.

Tucker watches from the entryway. “He gets a little scared sometimes,” he explains in a low voice, because it’s important that Wash know why Junior acts the way that he does, “About Theta, I mean. They don’t go to the same school and they’re not in the same grade, so Junior sometimes freaks out about being dropped if he isn’t able to keep up.”

Wash looks far more sympathetic than he should over some kid he’s only ever met twice. “I suppose it doesn’t help that they live on opposite sides of town and don’t get to see each other as often as they’d like.”

"No,” Tucker says, “It doesn’t.”

It also doesn’t help that Junior doesn’t have any other friends. He’s not shy or anything, but years of communication issues have convinced him that strangers are just bullies who haven’t attacked yet. He’s so anxious and so afraid, and when he does try it only gets worse, because fear makes him angry and anger makes him lash out or hide or pretend that he didn’t care in the first place, and nine times out of ten that means alienating any new friends he could make.

Tucker doesn’t know how to fix that.

He doesn’t know how to make Junior stop worrying all the time. He doesn’t know how to make him confident and happy and self-assured, because Tucker can tell him he’s amazing every day of the week and Junior will never believe it coming from him. And that’s bullshit, because he means it, he really does. He means it more than he’s ever meant anything in his entire life.

“Hey,” Wash says softly, gently nudging Tucker in the side, “Don’t worry about it so much. I may not know Junior all that well, but I’ve known Theta his entire life. He would never drop his best friend for somebody new.”

He wishes he could believe that. Washington’s eyes are wide and compassionate and he’s saying everything that Tucker wants to hear, but it’s not enough to convince him and it never will be. He remembers what friendships are like when you’re that young. Relationships grow and change as fast as the kids themselves and all it takes is one stupid argument over some video game or a broken toy and suddenly the friend you’ve had for years is the person you hate most in the world.  But Wash doesn’t have to lose that hope.

“I know,” Tucker lies.

Washington’s face falls in disappointment.

Oh fucking well. He tried, okay? He actually did. Maybe not as much as he could have, but he shouldn’t have to comfort someone because they weren’t able to comfort him. Washington’s just going to have to deal.

“The kitchen’s this way,” Tucker says dismissively, “You can join me if you want to or you can stay here and watch cartoons with Junior. It’s your choice.”

Washington grabs his arm before he can get too far away. “Wait, Tucker, hold on a second,” he urges, “Look, I know that you’re concerned, but I really don’t think you have to be. You were around his age when you met Church for the first time, weren’t you? And the two of you are still close friends all of these years later.”

He searches Tucker’s face for a sign that he believes.

Tucker shakes his head just once, but that’s enough, because it makes Washington’s eyes narrow and grow hard with determination. He takes two steps and crowds Tucker in, pushing him firmly until his back hits the hallway wall with a soft thump.

It doesn’t make him feel nervous the way he knows it should.

It makes him go still inside his mind. It calms him down almost immediately, all the anxiety and sorrow over his son’s unhappiness…not escaping, exactly, but becoming less present somehow; farther away instead of up close and personal.

But then, being too close has never been their problem. It’s only an issue when his mind gets involved.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t bat an eye when fingers curl around his elbow. Maybe that’s why he tilts his head up and goes completely still. Tucker doesn’t know if it is, but he lets the touch calm him and wipe away his fears. He’ll listen to whatever Washington has to say.

Washington stares intently back at him. “The way I see it, those two kids have a couple of great examples to show them how it’s done. If their friendship lasts even half the time yours does then Theta and Junior will be absolutely fine. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says slowly, mind racing with the new information. It’s funny, but he never thought of it that way before. Sometimes it seems like Church has always been in his life—not because he can’t remember a point before they met, but because he doesn’t want to. Why bother when there isn’t anything worth remembering?

It’s super cheesy and he’ll never fucking say it out loud, but he was Junior’s age when he first met the only brother he’ll ever have, and if Tucker can be that lucky then so can his son. He closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah,” he repeats unsteadily, “They’re gonna be good.”

Washington squeezes his elbow. It’s like the pool again, or maybe like the gym; they’re way too close but it feels so damn natural and the swirling rush of emotion makes him forget why he ever thought this was complicated. He doesn’t care what people would say if they saw him right now. He doesn’t care that this is closer than he gets with all of his other friends. He doesn’t _care_ , because this is Wash and they’re not friends and maybe that makes it okay to reach out.

He holds on to that feeling and doesn’t talk himself out of touching. He doesn’t want to; not this time, not when everything in him is screaming out to show his thanks. So instead of doubting or running or over-thinking anything, Tucker lets his palm drag across the bare flesh of Washington’s arm, warm and intimate as it rests against a pulse that speeds up at his touch. He rubs it soothingly with the pad of his thumb and lets his eyelids flutter shut for a second.

“C’mon,” Tucker says peacefully, “You can keep me company while I cook.”

Washington nods.

He silently follows Tucker across the hall. No—not just silently, but _readily_ , as if he’s willing to walk wherever Tucker leads at whatever pace that Tucker thinks best. He doesn’t ask for his wrist back or demand to know what’s going on. He just follows.

It’s enough to make a guy giddy.

But good feelings are always harder to hold onto than bad, and his nerves come back as soon as they step into the bright light of the kitchen. It was easier in the hall, somehow, as if the relative darkness hid them from sight while the kitchen only makes him feel on display. So he lets Washington’s wrist slip from his fingers and tells himself it doesn’t feel strange to let go.

“So, uh, just so you know, I’m not that great of a cook,” Tucker says, “I mean, I know how to make big things because my mom always made me help her around the holidays, but I suck at all the regular stuff. So, you know, don’t expect anything special out of me tonight.”

Washington nods again, oddly quiet.  He sits at the kitchen table holding his wrist, absentmindedly stroking his thumb over the place where Tucker’s once were as if trying to hold on to the memory of touch. Tucker has to turn away to catch his breath.

“Do you need any help?” Washington offers.

“No, I’ve got this,” Tucker says huskily. He clears his throat in embarrassment, determined to pretend that everything is normal.  “So how'd you know about that anyway?” He pulls a frying pan out from under the sink and reaches in the refrigerator for a couple of onions and the ground beef he put there last night. “About me and Church and how long we’ve known each other. I never told you any of that.”

He turns to Washington and looks at him curiously. He only really said it to get the attention off of himself, but he’s actually pretty curious about it now. He knows he’s never talked about his childhood with Wash before and he’s ninety-nine percent positive that Church never would. There’s no reason for Wash to know.

“I found out before I got to know you,” Wash says sheepishly, “Carolina told me months ago—back when she first convinced me to help you out.” He pauses for a second, looking at him inquisitively. “She said she used to babysit you when you were around Theta’s age. It seemed like a long time to know someone.”

“Yeah, uh, I used to go over to her house a lot after school. I mean, not always, because most of the time she would watch me at my house, but yeah. Whenever there was an emergency my mom would drop me off there. That’s how I met Church.”

Wash hesitates. “An emergency?”

“With my dad. He was in the hospital a lot,” Tucker says dismissively, “I don’t really want to talk about that. But yeah, my mom wasn’t really…she had a lot of things going on back then.” He grabs a knife and focuses on slicing the onions as fast as he can. He’s not gonna turn this into a movie cliché; he’s not gonna cry, not even over onions, and he’s sure as hell not gonna use them as an excuse.

“She wouldn’t stop cleaning,” he says abruptly, “My mom, I mean, when my dad was sick. She took all these extra shifts to pay the bills and went straight to the hospital as soon as she got out of work.”

He barely saw her.

Carolina tried everything she could think of to distract him from that knowledge; she started teaching him tumbling from gymnastics, rudimentary self-defense and even high school level French because she swore she needed someone to practice with. But all those hours learning everything she could throw at him didn’t mean shit in the long run, because he was never more aware of how alone he was than when he was at home.

Tucker snorts bitterly. “So you’d think she’d actually be there when she got home, right? But she wouldn’t even talk to me. She just kept cleaning the house over and over.” Wiping away every lingering trace of his dad as she did it, too lost in her own grief to realize how it was affecting him. “It was so dumb.”

He dares Washington to argue with him, to defend his mother and her grief the way other people would have—the way his relatives tried to do at the funeral when they finally looked up and saw he existed. If Washington even tries then he‘s gonna kicked out of this apartment and Tucker won’t regret it a single moment of his life.

He’s already glaring in preparation when he turns back around, but Wash destroys all his preemptive defenses with a single look, tearing them to pieces as if they were never there at all.Washington isn’t defending his mother. He’s staring back at Tucker with eyes that radiate compassion and sympathy and nothing like pity.

Tucker deflates a little under that gaze.

He shoves away from the counter and flops down at the table. He isn’t in the mood to cook anymore. He’ll order pizza instead—Junior will like that and Wash won’t mind.

“So then Carolina introduced me to her brother and used that as an excuse to bring me over to their place all the time,” Tucker continues dispassionately, “I mean, they acted like Church was just inviting me over for sleepovers, but I knew what was up. There were a couple of months where I was practically living over there. It was like the only time the Director wasn’t a total asshole.”

Those three months were the only time they got along. Things were different back then, less complicated in a way. Tucker was lonely and missing his parents and the only adult who was there for him was the same one who cooked his favorite meals and talked to him for hours before he went to sleep.

He was there for Tucker in a way he wasn’t with his own kids.

They would share their stories when nobody else was around, Tucker whispering details about his dad while the Director told him all about his wife who went missing in action. Sometimes it felt like they were the only two people in the world who knew what it was like to lose someone slowly.

A few years later, Church told him what really happened after their mom died, and it turns out Tucker should’ve been empathizing with him and Carolina all along. But that wasn’t when Tucker started to hate The Director, though. That came later, buried in amongst the betrayal, the fear, and the crossed out chances from years of watching his best friends get abused.

Washington watches him solemnly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Tucker shrugs. “Yeah, whatever, everything’s cool now anyway,” he says carelessly, “My mom pulled herself back together after the funeral and everything went back to normal. It wasn’t a big deal. I barely even remember what happened.”

It’s a blatant lie, but Wash doesn’t call him on it. He’s not the type, anyway; he doesn’t push when it comes to things like this. He can be judgmental about the most petty of things, but you could tell the guy anything personal and he’ll never make you regret it. So Tucker blurts out his deepest, darkest secret right there in the middle of the kitchen:

“Sometimes I'm afraid I'm going to wind up like them."

Washington startles. "I...what?"

Tucker freezes. "Nothing."

Washington frowns deeply at him. "Why would you think—"

Tucker pushes away from the table anxiously, head shaking furiously back and forth. "Whoa, I did _not_ say anything just then, okay? You heard nothing, bro."

"No, Tucker," Wash says stubbornly, "Why would you think you'd wind up like them? You're nothing like—"

"I know," Tucker says. And he does. But he has seen what people do for love. He's seen Church make the same mistakes as his father, the same mistakes as Tucker's mother. He's seen Simmons and Grif pine over each other for years to the point where they can't see anybody else. He's seen Wash pining over Doc even now.

He refuses to do that to Junior.

"Tucker—"

He shakes his head sharply, silencing Wash. He doesn't want to hear it. In fact, he wants to pretend this whole stupid conversation never happened in the first place. "Thanks again for coming over,” he says loudly, “I know I said I’d cook you something for helping out, but uh—fuck it, cooking sucks. I’m ordering pizza instead.”

Wash nods slowly. "That's fine."

"You sure?"

"I think I'll live," Washington says drily.

"Yeah, well, I was just gonna make meatloaf anyway, so you aren't exactly missing out on much. And it's not like Junior's gonna be upset about it." Though he might pretend to be if he's still upset with Tucker. "Pshh, and if he is, I'll just tell him it was your idea. He likes you enough that that'll calm him down."

Wash practically lights up at the compliment, as if Tucker had just given him a gift instead of telling the truth. "You're not just saying that?"

“No,” Tucker says unhappily, “You really are good with him. Like, weirdly good. He’s better now, but he still gets frustrated really easily, especially when he’s learning something new. But he never got frustrated with you and you never got frustrated with him.”

Junior’s clever and intelligent, even for his age, but too many people think that trouble communicating means trouble understanding. It’s not just kids, either—adults are usually the first in line to treat him like he’s stupid or pat him on the head with condescending sympathy. Thanks to assholes like that, Junior learned at a very young age that any sign of failure will be treated as proof, so these days, he makes sure to get things right on the first try.

It sucks that he has to.

Washington nods solemnly. “I know how trying it can be when no one understands you,” he says, completely unexpectedly, “Not personally, of course, but my old partner, Maine—he was at the engagement dinner, do you remember?”

Tucker shrugs.

“You must not have gotten a chance to talk to him before I got there. Anyway, a couple of years ago there was an incident on a job that severely impaired his ability to speak.” Washington goes quiet. “We all used to joke about things like that. That one day one of us would run out of luck and wind up dead or with permanent damage. We even took bets on who would be the first out of the door.” Washington laughs. “I was the popular bet for a long time.”

A small, hurt noise echoes through the room and he’s surprised to realize it came from him.  He shouldn’t care about some stupid bet they made years ago, not when Wash is sitting in front of him perfectly fine and obviously alive. He shouldn’t care about a lot of things.

Washington rubs his thumb along the lines of his wrist again. “But I guess it wasn’t all that amusing after all,” he says sheepishly. “We certainly didn’t think so anymore, not after Maine hit his head and York damaged his eye.” He pauses, working through what he wants to say. “After the accident, he—Maine, that is—he could still understand what we were saying easily enough, but he had trouble constructing whole sentences. He knew what he wanted to say, but the words he wanted were always out of reach. He got frustrated too.”

“Did he visit a speech therapist like Junior did?”

“He went to one for a while, but he never really stuck with it,“ Washington explains, “He never really felt that he was getting better fast enough for his liking. He wound up quitting after only a month. Either way, we all had to make a few adjustments to our behavior once it became clear that the aphasia was likely permanent.”

Washington looks down at the table. “He always had a bit of a temper, but after the accident it was nearly impossible to keep him calm. Little things like filling in a word or finishing a sentence would send him off the deep end. We didn’t know what to do or how to help. Eventually we learned that the best thing we could do for him was to be patient and treat him as normally as possible.”

Washington looks at him from beneath his eyelashes. “It helped a lot for Maine,” he says almost bashfully, “So I figured that’s all Junior needed too—for someone to listen carefully and let him take it at his own pace.”

Tucker swallows past the lump in his throat. “Yeah, most people…most people don’t really get that.” He pushes away from the table almost blindly, arms wrapping themselves around his midsection as something like panic forces its way through him.

There’s something building inside him or breaking apart, because out of nowhere anger and affection and _want_ rise up in him and strips him of all semblance of rational thought.  It builds and builds until his fists clench and he’s practically shaking with it—

“I really wish you were an asshole,” Tucker says miserably.

—and he _hates_ it. He is so fucking done with Washington making him think about things he doesn’t want to think about.  Tucker kicks the counter furiously, wishing it was Wash’s face. “Why can’t you just be a dick to him like other people are? Why do you have to be good to him?”

Wash startles visibly, reeling back in shock. “What is this?” he asks warily, pushing his chair away from the table. He gets up, moving slowly as if afraid of spooking him any further. “Where is this coming from? Everything was going fine for once. We were getting along. Why are you being so irrational all of a—“

 _“You’re_ being irrational!” Tucker yells, clinging tight to his resentment and rage. He doesn’t think about the look on Washington’s face; he can’t, not right now, because if he lets himself pay attention to that wounded look or the growing disappointment, then he’s going to have to wonder why he cares so much about it.

“Real mature, Lavernius,” Washington says. He huffs in frustration and reaches across the table, fingers stretching out in an effort to make contact. “Look, why don’t you calm down and just tell me what all this is about?” he says soothingly, “We don’t have to go through this again.”

Tucker smacks his hand away. “Why can’t you just be an asshole for once?” he demands, “I know you’re capable of it, okay? I’ve seen you do it before. So why don’t you just insult him or call him a brat—fucking anything, just _do_ something!”

Washington stares at him in disbelief. “Are you even listening to yourself? You sound ridiculous. You’re actually asking me to be mean to a nine year old—to your _son_ for no reason at all. Even for you this makes absolutely no sense.”

“I know!” Tucker shouts, “It’s all your fault!”

It has to be Washington’s fault—it _has_ to be, because his brain only ever goes twisted when Wash is involved. It’s the only time he finds himself thinking impossible things and wanting impossible wants that he doesn’t have a chance in hell of holding on to. He makes everything confusing and Tucker is so fucking tired of being confused.

Washington’s shoulders slump in response, and his voice, when he finally speaks, sounds tired and subdued. “I just don’t know what you want from me,” he says wearily, “I really don’t.”

Then he’s in good fucking company, because neither does Tucker.

No—that’s a lie. He does know.

Tucker wants Washington to stop being so nice. He wants him to stop being the kind of guy Tucker can tell anything to, the guy he shares his life with without worrying about judgment or scorn. He wants…he wants to stop thinking about Washington’s hands when he falls asleep and his eyes when their gazes meet and the way he gets along with the most important person in Tucker’s life. He wants to regret ever meeting him in that gym. But that’s not what he says. What he says ruins everything he was trying to fix.

"I want you to go on a date with me.”

Washington freezes.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, _fuck_.

Tucker scrambles around the table, hands flailing wildly in the air as if that could erase the words that have already left his mouth. “Wait, no, fuck, that’s not what I meant,” he says, frantically searching for a sign that Washington will let this go. His heart sinks in his chest when he doesn’t get it, falling even further at the lack of reaction on the frozen face. “Fuck, just…let me explain.”

“Don’t bother,” Washington says grimly, “I think I should go home.”

"No, wait, don’t do that,” he says anxiously, “Wash, c’mon. I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know why I said that. You don’t have to go.”

Washington jerks away from him. “No, I think I should,” he says calmly, backing away until he’s almost out of the kitchen. “And I think we should stop seeing each other until you can figure out why you said what you did.”

Washington wears his detachment like armor against hurt, keeping every thought off his face as if letting Tucker see them will ruin him completely. It’s his statue impression all over again, but somehow taken to a new extreme; before, it was about awkwardness and disconcertment, now it's about pain and self-preservation.

A few months ago, Tucker would have believed it completely. He would have taken one glance at Washington’s cold eyes and expressionless face and assumed that there was nothing beneath the surface that remotely resembled warmth. He would have seen it and never thought twice about it. But Tucker has spent the last three month carefully studying every flicker of emotion, and he can see every inch of the pain that Wash is desperate to keep hidden.

Tucker stares down at his feet and tries not to think about how much he’s gonna deserve it when North or York finally kicks his ass. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “Maybe that’s for the best.”

Washington sighs deep from the chest. “Look, Tucker, this isn’t a punishment, alright? I’m not trying to manipulate you or force you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with—“

“I know that,” Tucker snaps, “You don’t have to say that.”

Wash has never been the kind of guy who would do something like that. He doesn’t have special tricks to get people to sleep with him or pre-planned flattery that would get them on his side.  He doesn’t play head games or lie or fuck with people’s emotions. He doesn’t hurt people.

He’s a good guy. Better than Tucker is.

“I really do like you, Tucker,” Washington says evenly, “And I think we both know that by now. I like you more than I’ve liked anyone in quite some time. But I don’t like you enough to deal with this constant back and forth with you.”

Tucker shoves his fingers into his hair. “What back and forth?” he asks resentfully, tugging his way through the curls. The small bite of pain is enough to keep him centered.“There is no back and forth. You are delusional, bro. I mean, maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did today, but—”

“You mean when you asked me out only to immediately take it back?” Washington asks pointedly, “No, maybe you shouldn’t have said that today. And maybe you shouldn’t have gotten jealous over my relationship with my ex-boyfriend last weekend. And maybe you shouldn’t have spent the whole night by the pool…”

Wash cuts himself off, pausing to collect himself. He looks down almost despondently, and with a wounded tone that feels like a punch to the spine, he says, “I thought you were going to kiss me that night. I thought you wanted to, because you stayed close the entire time and kept on finding reasons to touch me. But I was wrong. You don’t know what you want.”

It wasn’t his _fault._

Wash can’t blame him for the way he acted that night, not when he had been half-wild from all that dreaming. He had been driven to distraction, confused and desperate, lulled into a false sense of attraction to someone impossible to ignore. All those fantasies that had been brainwashing him for days finally culminated in a need to touch, to feel something solid after a week of nothing but air.

“I don’t play games, Tucker,” Washington says, “So if you want to date me and you’re absolutely sure about it, then tell me right now and I’ll say yes. But if you want to be friends, then we can’t act the way we do right now. You can’t get jealous of who I let sleep at my house and you can’t trail your fingers over my skin and make me think you’re asking for more. That’s not the way it works.”

Washington holds his gaze without blinking, impossible to look away from. “And if you just want to have a professional relationship, then we can do that too. We’ll go our separate ways after our six months are up and we’ll only see each other when we’ve visiting our mutual friends. But either way, you need to make a decision.”

He wants to be able to end this conversation right now. It would be so simple—all he has to do is open his mouth and tell Washington what he’s been telling people all along: that Wash might be one of the best friends he’s ever had in his life, but that’s all that lies between them and that’s all that ever will.

It would be so easy to set the record straight.

But when Tucker thinks about saying those words to Washington…to shutting that door once and for all…he just can’t do it. Even the thought of making that decision fills him with dread and something like panic.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats helplessly.

Washington closes his eyes for a long moment. “I suppose that’s as good an answer as any,” he says quietly, and when he opens them again they’re filled with sorrow so strong that Tucker is forced to look away. “Goodbye, Lavernius.”

And without saying another word, Washington turns his back on Tucker and walks out of the room, leaving him standing alone in the wreckage.

Tucker doesn’t take his eyes off the floor.

If he doesn’t watch him go it’s like he never left at all. If he doesn’t look, Tucker can still convince himself that Wash is just down the hall, brimming with anger but still fucking there. If he doesn’t move, he’ll never have to come to terms with the fact that he might have permanently fucked up one of the best things in his life.

In the distance, the faint click of the front door closing seems to echo through the apartment.

“…are you still mad?”

Bizarrely, he thinks that Washington has come back after all, running back in the room to say, “I get it, you were confused. Nothing has to change.” But the voice is too high-pitched, too anxious for that, and when he looks up he sees Junior standing inches away, lurking at the kitchen door as if afraid to come inside. One look at him is all it takes for Tucker to understand exactly what happened.

“You were listening,” Tucker says dumbly, another wave of shame crashing over him at the thought of having a witness to his humiliating little fuck up—and not just any witness, but his _son_ , who is fierce and amazing, but still so sensitive to negative emotions. _“Fuck_.”

Junior inches forward uncertainly. “Dad?”

“Hey, no, come here,” Tucker says, crouching down to pull him into his arms. No matter what he’s feeling, he can’t let Junior know what’s going on in his head. Sometimes he has to be a dad before he gets to be anything else. “Don’t freak out,” he whispers into Junior’s ear, “You don’t need to worry about any of that.”

“You were yelling,” Junior says anxiously, clinging to his shoulders.

“I know,” he says, “But you still don’t need to worry.” He buries his face in Junior’s hair, breathing in that soothing scent for as long as he can get away with it. “Don’t freak out,” Tucker whispers again, trying very hard not to feel like he’s lost something he wasn’t ready to give up.

That night, the two of them curl up on the couch and play video games for hours, gorging themselves on pizza until they’re sick to their stomach. Junior does his best to cheer him up by getting sauce all over his face, cracking terrible jokes and overacting his agony every time he loses a game. In exchange, Tucker does his best to pretend that it’s working.

Both of them fail at their objectives.

Junior finally drops off at a quarter to twelve, pushed past the limits of his own stubbornness. He lays sprawled across the floor, still covered in red and getting sauce everywhere.  In a few minutes, Tucker will clean him up before carrying him off to bed, but right now he’s distracted by the chime of his phone that tells him he has a message.

It reads, simply: _I think it’s for the best if York takes over for me from now on._

 

On Monday, Tucker doesn’t bother showing up at the gym.


	14. Cognitive Dissonance

Tucker spends the weekend after Christmas getting as drunk as feasibly possible.

“Fucking Washington,” Tucker slurs angrily into his drink. He downs the rest of it in one gulp and scowls at his reflection in the mirror. “He has to make everything stupid, doesn’t he? Stupid and serious.”

“Yeah, stupid serious Washington,” Grif agrees, slumping over the bar. His hand jostles his drink and spills it all over the bar top. He gazes mournfully down at the beer, then wipes it down with the end of his sleeve and sucks the liquid from the material. “Who needs him?”

“No one!” Tucker says defiantly, “Just other stupid people.” He looks morosely down at the empty shot glass in front of him and tries to remember if he has any money left. He wants another drink. “But I’m pretty stupid. So maybe I do too.”

Grif sways into him and pats him on the shoulder, “No no no,” he says reassuringly. “You don’t need him. He needs you so he can be less stupid and serious. That‘s how it works. Just ask Simmons.”

"I'm not talking about your stupid not-marriage, Grif."

"Shut up," Grif says, "We're not married!"

Tucker blinks blearily at him through the haze of alcohol. "That's what I _said_ ," he tells Grif confusedly, "You're not-married."

Grif scowls. "Shut up. You know what I mean."

Tucker really doesn't, but it's not as though talking to Grif about his feelings for Simmons ever seems to end up well for anyone. "Okay, whatever," he says instead, nodding at him as if he agrees, "But I was talking about Wash."

Grif waves a hand in the air dismissively. Or, well, it's probably _supposed_ to look dismissive, but it really just looks like he's swatting a fly. "Nah, fuck 'em," Grif replies. He pauses, squinting for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, wait, don't fuck him. _Fuck_ him. I mean screw him. I mean fuck _that_." His face scrunches up in confusion. "Yeah, that."

Tucker locks onto the beginning of that sentence with pinpoint accuracy. "But I don't want to fuck him," he says almost mournfully, "That's the problem. I just wanna be friends and date him and stuff."

"You can't date friends," Grif says.

Tucker leers. "I dated your sister."

Grif hits him hard in the arm.

Tucker hisses, flinching away from the punch so much that he very nearly falls off the barstool trying to avoid it. "Hey!" he exclaims, "I didn't even say I fucked her this time!"

Grif punches him again.

"Okay," Tucker says, pain sobering him long enough to realize that he won't get anywhere going down that route with him, "But my point is that you can totally date friends. Look at you and—"

"I swear to God, if you say Simmons I'm going to punch you in the face this time."

Tucker shuts his mouth.

The two of them remain quiet for a good long while, just soaking in each other's company and the atmosphere of the bar, letting the background music wash over them as Grif sips at the remains of his drink and Tucker fishes his wallet out of his pocket and buys another.

"I guess it's not Wash's fault I think he's cool," Tucker says out of nowhere, "Or that I wanna...y'know. Date him."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," Grif replies with a snort, "That shit is all on you. I was just saying all that stuff to make you feel better."

"Oh," Tucker says. He probably should've realized that sooner, but in his defense he's more than a little tipsy, and Grif isn't being too clear himself. Bizarrely, though, it almost makes him pissed off on Washington's behalf.

"We should—"

"You shouldn't do that," Tucker interrupts, frowning a little, "You're supposed to tell me when I'm being a dick and stuff, or I'll keep being one. That's what Church does. He says it's his job."

"I'm not Church," Grif points out.

"Oh," Tucker says again, "Right. I forgot about that." He shifts uncomfortably on his seat and looks at Grif out of the corner of his eye. "Could you try being him for awhile, though? 'Cause he stopped answering my calls a week ago."

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Oh, hey," Tucker says, "You sound like him already."

Grif rolls his eyes and signals to the bartender that he wants another beer. "So what is it with this guy, anyway? What's so great about him that he turned you gay?"

What's so great about _Simmons?_ Tucker thinks, though he doesn't say it out loud for fear of getting another bruise. Instead, he shakes his head firmly and says, "I'm not gay. Or bi, or whatever. That's Wash's deal, not mine."

Grif makes a face. "Didn't you just say that you wanted to date him?"

"So?" Tucker says, "I meant as a friend."

"I repeat," Grif says, "You're a fucking idiot."

"Weird," Tucker tells him, "That's what Church said when I told him that too."

 

* * *

 

Tucker takes a cab home at about two o'clock, long past the time that Grif got tired and called up Simmons to take him home. Tucker'd like to think that his quick absence had nothing to do with him, but the fact of the matter is it doesn't take a genius to realize that Grif leaving coincided with Tucker talking to him about Wash.

It's so not cool, especially with Tucker still antsy with the need to spill his guts and sort out the tangled web of emotions that Washington left in his wake.

Tucker flops down on the couch with a sigh.

That's another friend down in his search for answers. Who's he gonna talk to now? Simmons? Donut? Un-fucking-likely. He'd be better off talking to _Wash_.

And like a light bulb turning on, Tucker brightens at the very idea. Who would know better than Wash what to do? After all, he's the only other one who knows what went down. He's the only other one who knows how Tucker is feeling. And he's definitely the only one that won't hang up if Tucker says he needs to talk to him.

Tucker pulls out his phone, scrolling through the list of names until he comes to the one that reads 'Wash.' His finger hovers over it for a minute, lagging as his brain struggles to figure out if it's a good idea.

It only takes him a moment to make his decision. Tucker stares down at the phone in silence, just looking at the name of the person he wants to talk to most. With a sigh of something like regret, he presses down and waits for a reply at the other end.

It rings once, then twice, then three times.

Just as he's beginning to give up, he hears a voice on the other end that's so loving and welcoming that it brings a smile to his face for the first time in days.

"Dad?"

Tucker closes his eyes as relief floods through him. Junior’s voice is scratchy with sleep, but it’s the most beautiful thing that Tucker’s heard in days. “Hey, Junior,” he says softly, “Sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night.”

“Mom says you shouldn’t call so late because it’ll mess with my sleep schedule.”

“Rule number one of having a cell phone is that your dad gets to call you up whenever he wants,” Tucker replies, “Who else am I gonna call if I need to be bailed out of jail? Church? Please. You’re the only one I trust enough to drive me home.”

Junior giggles. “But I’m not old enough to drive yet.”

“Oh, come on,” Tucker scoffs, ”Age doesn’t mean anything! Caboose is old enough to drive, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. You’ll be fine.”

He grins when Junior giggles again. He feels better than he has in weeks, almost giddy with pleasure from bantering with the person that he loves most in the entire world. “Don’t tell your mom,” Tucker whispers conspiratorially, “But she probably had a point about that sleep thing.”

"It’s okay, Dad,” Junior says, “You told me it was okay for emergencies.”

Tucker can hear the creak of the bed as Junior shuffles around. Tucker pictures him curled up in the middle of the bed with his Adventure Time blankets and Spider-man pajamas, energy sword resting by the head for protection. “Well, it’s not exactly an emergency,” he admits as he relaxes onto the couch.

“You said that if I was upset about something then it was an emergency,” Junior replies stubbornly. “So if you’re upset about something then you should call me and maybe I could make you feel better too.”

Tucker stills immediately, muscles tensing up as quickly as they had relaxed. “Who said I was upset about something?” Tucker asks, pulling his knees up on the couch. He wraps an arm around them worriedly, hands clenching in the material of his sweats, wondering what his son has seen.

“Theta said Mr. Washington’s been over at his house a lot ‘cause he’s sad about something,” Junior explains instead of answering, “And then I remembered you were fighting with him, so I thought you would be sad too.” Junior pauses and then starts whispering into the phone. “Are you sad about Mr. Washington? ‘Cause I think I can get people to be mean to him if you want me to.”

“Hey, I was joking about that high school thing,” Tucker says, “You definitely shouldn’t be taking advice from Sister no matter how old you are.” He sighs when Junior makes a sound of disapproval. “Look, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be okay in a little while.”

“I asked Mom about it and she said that you’d be okay, but that first you had to veg out on the couch and eat greasy things and get drunk with your friends,” Junior says. He pauses in confusion. “But I told her that you do that every week and she just laughed.”

Tucker smiles. “And every week I’m fine, right?”

“Yeaaaah,” Junior replies, yawning into the phone.

“So she obviously knows what she’s talking about,” he says firmly. He glances down at the clock on his cell phone and winces at the time, “Just like she was right about not calling you in the middle of the night.” Tucker sighs and leans back into the cushion. “I’ll let you get back to sleep now, okay?”

“Okay,” Junior hums, “Did I help you feel better?”

“Yeah, Junior, you helped me a lot.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too. Good night.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker goes to sleep that night thinking about Washington being sad. His stomach rolls whenever his mind drifts toward the thought, twisting and turning at the very idea that he caused that to happen all by himself.

He's such an asshole.

Such a huge fucking asshole.

He spent all that time jerking Wash around just because he couldn't figure out a way to explain that he wanted to to date Washington, but only as a friend, not date-date him the way that Washington thought.

Bro-date him, kinda, if that's even a word. Just going out together on a regular basis, eating together at restaurants and having long talks about personal things that neither of them could tell anyone else. That's all he wanted, nothing more.

He didn't want the rest of it like Washington thought. He didn't want to curl up next to him when they're sitting together. He didn't want to climb in his lap after a long day at work. He didn't want to kiss him or touch him in any way except as a friend, and he didn't want to anything that wasn't...well, _straight_.

He just wants to take Wash to their restaurant with Junior and sit with him at those tiny tables that force them so close that their legs brush when they're eating together. He just wants to feel Wash's knees knocking against his while they joke with Junior, just wants to argue with him over the merits of pie. Just wants to...

He just wants to share his life with Washington.

That doesn't mean anything at all.

Tucker goes to sleep that night and wishes for impossible things.

 

* * *

 

Tucker wakes up the very next morning with the knowledge of three things he won't soon forget. One, that he's never going drinking with Grif again. Two, that he has the best kid in the whole goddamn world. And three, that the number of barbecues he's allowed to miss before he gets in trouble is exactly one.

"Get up," Carolina snarls as she stands over him.

Tucker's head is pounding like a motherfucker, but he does as she says, the threat of oncoming pain enough to have him throwing himself out of bed.

She immediately shields her eyes.

"Whoops," he says, and grabs for sheets to cover himself, "Sorry about that." Though it's not exactly his fault that she got an eyeful after deciding to break into his place. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Why aren't you wearing any clothes?" she shoots back.

"Why didn't you ring the fucking bell?"

They glare at each other for a long minute, each unwilling to give up their point in favor of moving on with the conversation. It's only once Carolina makes the decision to back down that Tucker is able to get some clothes on and meet her on the living room couch.

"You never answered my question," Tucker points out as soon as he sits down, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Carolina shrugs, looking far more nonchalant than she probably is. “I heard what happened with you and Wash,” she says, as though it were a little thing, “Never thought you were the type to run and hide, though.”

Tucker shifts uncomfortably. "I didn’t know what to do,” he admits, “I figured, you know, I’ve already done enough fucking damage, so why make things any more awkward for him than they already were?”

“So instead of acting like an adult and facing your problems head on, you decided the best possible solution would be to avoid everyone you know and hide away in your apartment,” Carolina sums up in the driest possible tone, “Yet another brilliant strategy by Lavernius Tucker. ”

“Hey, I was trying to do the right thing,” Tucker protests, “I wanted to make things easier on Wash after I treated him like shit for three months, okay? He shouldn’t have to stop hanging out with everyone just because I was a fucking idiot.”

Carolina considers the words carefully. When she speaks, her voice resonates with a truth that cuts through all the guilt and anger and doubt he’s been feeling. “Believe it or not, Tucker,” she begins, “Wash can take care of himself. He knew exactly what he was getting into when he developed feelings for you.”

There’s steel in her voice on Tucker’s behalf. She bites out every word as if they’re absolute truth, undeniable and inescapable and impossible to argue with.

Tucker tries anyway. "Yeah, but—"

“Shut up,” she says sharply, “You’re going to listen to me right now and you’re going to keep your mouth shut until I’m finished talking.” She meets his gaze and holds it until he nods in sullen affirmation. “Good. Then listen up: Washington isn't angry with you.”

Tucker scoffs and opens his mouth to interrupt, but it snaps shut again when she shoots him a warning look.

"He isn't angry with you because he’s _been where you are_ ,” she says emphatically, “He knows exactly how confused you’ve been lately, probably better than you do. He didn’t just back off because he was angry with you, Tucker, he backed off so that _neither_ of you would get hurt.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He and Carolina haven’t always had the best of relationships, so he never expected this kind of sympathy and understanding from her. Not for him, anyway.

"I thought you’d take his side,” he admits, “And get pissed off at me for being an idiot.”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Carolina tells him. But her face softens the longer he looks at her, vibrant green eyes turning warm and affectionate. “You know, Tucker, Wash has been a very good friend of mine for years and there’s almost no one else I’d rather have watching my back, but I only have two brothers.”

Tucker’s breath catches in his throat.

She hops off the couch before he can react, walking backward without looking until she’s almost out the room. “Which reminds me,” she tells him, suddenly amused, “I have a message for your son. When Junior comes back, tell him that I intercepted the package and placed it in a secure location. He’ll know what I’m talking about.”

Tucker startles. “Wait, what does that—“

Carolina’s eyes gleam with mischief. “You’ll see in a little while,” she promises, grinning back at him, “It’s just a little something special we’ve been cooking up all week. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Tucker gives her an uncertain look.

She winks at him and turns to go, but pauses at the last moment to look at him over her shoulder. “Oh, and Tucker?” Carolina says seriously, “Don’t ever convince yourself that you’re doing anyone a favor by avoiding your friends. I don’t care what your reasons are.”

“I won’t,” he assures her quietly.

“Good,” she says, just as softly. Then she walks forward a few steps more and exits just as quickly as she arrived, leaving Tucker sitting on the couch and reeling from the things she said.

He discovers, once he thinks about it, that he doesn’t want to think about it at all. Not now, anyway. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow during work when he’s stuck doing the boring stuff. Maybe next week when Junior’s finally back home and he can relax. Maybe next month, when this whole thing has boiled over.

Maybe never.

Because if Carolina was right and Washington isn't angry, then Tucker might have to think about why that is. He might have to consider the fact that he and Wash had a lot more in common than previously thought. He might have to consider the fact that the way he thought about Wash was different from the way he thought about other people.

He might have to think about why that is.

He might even have to consider that he wasn’t just jerking Wash around because he was an asshole who fucked with people’s heads. He might even have to consider that he might have been doing it because he was confused and afraid and panicking over a lot of things he wasn’t ready to think about.

Frankly, he'd rather be an asshole.

So he doesn’t think about that. He doesn’t think about that at all.

 

* * *

 

The only problem is that Tucker spends so much time not thinking about it that it becomes all he can think about at all. He spends the rest of the day thinking about it, thoughts swirling around in his mind until it distracts him from everything he has to do.

Which is probably why he doesn’t recognize the hard clasp of the hand on his shoulder that bites into him while he’s doing his shopping.

Tucker tenses up immediately at the sudden threat. He drops the box of Cheerios in his hand and then clenches his fists, ready to throw down at the drop of a hat. "Dude, I don’t know who you are or what your problem is, but if you don’t take your hand off me in the next two seconds, you're gonna—“

Oh.

Oh shit.

North stares back at him placidly.

"H-Hey, North," Tucker stutters, "Didn't expect to see you here." He tries to back up out of the grasp, but the hand on his shoulder is like a steel clamp and he can only get so far.

North gives him a genial smile, looking back at him with that terrifying aura of friendliness that puts Tucker way more on edge than any threat ever could. "Tex and I were just getting some early supplies in preparation for the New Year's party.” He nods further down the aisle to where Tex is standing, browsing chips or dip or something like that.

“That’s cool?” Tucker says uncertainly.

North tightens his hand on Tucker’s shoulders and his smile goes a little dangerous on the sides. “Say,” North says instead of continuing with the topic, “I missed you at the party last week.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says.

“Strange. You usually go anywhere there’s free booze.”

Tucker’s mind races desperately for an excuse good enough to convince North. “Y-Yeah,” he stammers out, “I’ve just been trying to cut down lately. You know, try to get rid of the ol’ beer belly.”

North looks pointedly down at the six-pack in Tucker’s cart.

 _Fuck._ He decides to bluster it out.

“Well you can’t cut down all at once, can you?” Tucker says, “You’ve got to take it slow. I know how it goes. I watched Celebrity Rehab!”

“Uh-huh,” North says noncommittally.

It’s pretty damn clear that he doesn’t believe Tucker, but you know what? Tucker doesn’t really give a shit right now. It’s none of North’s goddamn business what Tucker is doing with his life. North just wants to ream him out about hurting Wash’s feelings, but Tucker already feels like shit about it on his own. He doesn’t need anyone helping him.

“Do you know what’s interesting?” North begins, already moving forward before Tucker can answer, “You deciding not to show up to the barbecue the week after Wash starts showing up at my house every other night.”

“I—"

North shakes his head regretfully as he gazes at Tucker with those sharp blue eyes of his, “I could’ve sworn that you and I had a discussion about what happens to people who hurt my friends.”

“I get the point already,” Tucker chokes out, the words coming out more filled with self-loathing than he ever wanted North to hear. “You don’t have to rub it in my freaking face, okay?”

North’s hand softens on Tucker’s shoulder just as his face twitches with regret at the bitter turn the conversation has taken . “Tucker,  I—"

“This guy bothering you, Tucker?”

Tucker jolts and whirls around to see Tex sauntering confidently toward them. She’s smiling as though she said it playfully, but he’s pretty sure that everyone nearby can hear the hard bite in her voice that’s impossible to ignore.

Tucker stands just a little bit taller. This time, his attempts to brush off North’s hands are successful, and he uses that to dart over to Tex’s side, letting her elbow her way in front of him.

Tucker glares at North rebelliously. “He’s just giving me flack over the Wash thing.”

Tex hums a little in response. “Huh. That doesn’t sound like it’s any of his business,” she muses thoughtfully, “In fact, it kind of sounds like something that you and Wash have to deal with by yourselves.”

“Yeah, it is,” Tucker replies.

He stares North down, confident now that Tex is by his side.

North’s lips quirk up for half a second, and then he’s laughing genuinely at them both. “Okay, okay,” he says with his hands thrown in the air, “I get it. I’m not the only one who’s a little protective of their friends.”

But he stares at Tucker pensively, as if reevaluating the situation.

Tex ignores that as easily as she ignores everything else. “Good,” she replies, sending one last hard look North’s way, “Then if we’re done with this crap, I’ve got some alcohol to go purchase for a crowd of drunks.”

And without another word, she strolls off and leaves as quickly and as suddenly as she arrived. North watches her go in something like admiration. “Sorry about that,” he says as he turns back around with a wink at Tucker, “You know how it is, don’t you?”

Yeah, he does. He hates to admit it, but he really does. Tucker would’ve done way more than threaten someone if they had messed with someone he loved the way Tucker unintentionally messed with Wash.

“I guess I just forgot that there was more than one person involved in this whole mess,” North murmurs to himself. He broods over that for a moment while staring at Tucker in careful consideration.

“What?” Tucker says flatly.

“I’m gonna try to drag Wash along to the end of the year party,” North declares finally, “You should think about coming.”

“Yeah, no, I’ll definitely get on that,” Tucker lies, and flees to the other side of the store without another word.

 

* * *

 

“Thanks for the save,” Tucker says much later, when they’re sitting in a bar near both their apartments. It’s not their usual place, but that only means that they’re unlikely to be interrupted by one of the others.

Tex grins wolfishly and downs a shot, slamming the empty glass down on the table when she’s done. “No problem,” she says, “If anyone’s around here’s going to give you a hard time it’s going to be me. I’m the only one who gets to kick your ass.”

“Great,” Tucker mutters, “That’s really thoughtful, Tex.”

“You know, if you have a problem with that, I could probably call North up right now,” Tex says mildly, “I mean, it _seemed_ like he calmed down about it, but you never know. He could change his mind.”

“Nevermind," Tucker says, “Lesson learned.”

He goes quiet after that and Tex doesn't rush him. She's always been good that way. She'd probably say it’s because she doesn’t care about emotions or friendship or listening to him whine, but when it comes right down to it, she’s probably the best person to come to for advice. At the very least, she’s great at cutting through the bullshit and telling you when you’re being stupid.

But he doesn’t need anyone to tell him that this time. He knows perfectly well what he did.

"I did something stupid," he admits. He fiddles with his own empty glass, rocking it against the bar top with the tips of his fingers.

“And now you need me to clean up your mess,” she says drily. “What else is new? It’s bad enough I have to help you morons out whenever you get into a fight you can’t handle or because you need revenge because Donut stole your flag during prank week—“

“It had sentimental value!” Tucker says defensively, “I lost my virginity on that thing. Besides, if you’re going to start holding me responsible for all the stupid shit I get up to then we’re gonna be here all fucking day. So can you skip the part where you call me an idiot and get to the point where you tell me what to do already?”

“Ugh,” she mutters, “Fine, start talking.”

The story spills out in bursts of emotion, words tumbling over themselves as he struggles to explain what‘s been going through his head in the last couple of months.

He starts from the beginning, bringing up the strange tension that was there since the first day they met that only intensified once they began spending time together. He talks about the car rides and the private moments and the way Tucker would sometimes want to run away without looking back. He tells her about the way Wash makes him want to do stupid things like run a marathon or hold someone’s hand or sit in silence for hours breathing in each other’s air.

When it’s all over, she stares back at him and calmly orders another drink.

“The way I see it,” Tex says, “Is that you can do one of two things: you can do this right and figure out how you really feel or you can jump in like you always do and screw things up again. It’s your choice.”

“Thanks a fucking lot,” he grumbles.

But it makes sense.

 

* * *

 

The only problem with that is he doesn't want to think about it. Or rather, he doesn't think he has to. He already knows how he feels about Washington. He already knows what he really wants.

So why hasn't he given Wash a fucking answer yet? He's still thinking about that on New Year's Eve. Well, when he isn't thinking about getting laid.

Church stares at him in disbelief. "Did you really fucking dress like that tonight?"

Tucker glances down at his black ripped jeans, aqua t-shirt and fitted leather jacket. "What's wrong with it?" he says with a frown. He thinks he looks pretty good right now. More than good, if he's completely honest, even if it isn't what he usually wears.

"Whatever happened to dressing up for Carolina's old sorority sisters?"

"Oh, please," Tucker says as he rolls his eyes. "The ladies are gonna love me whatever I wear." That's just a fact. He doesn't have to wear date clothes to look good for people. Church should really know better by now.

"Uh-huh," Church says, "Right."

Tucker ignores that in favor of giving into his excitement. "Fuck!" he says as he bounces on the balls of his feet, "This is gonna be so awesome. There's gotta be some hot-ass blonde I can make out with when the clock finally strikes midnight up in here."

Church snorts. "Some hot-ass blond, huh?"

"Yeah, so?" Tucker says, "You know I've always had a thing for them."

Church nods thoughtfully for a couple of seconds. Then he says with all seriousness, "Do you honestly listen to yourself talk, or does all that bullshit come out of your mouth without you hearing a single word?"

Tucker scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?" he replies, "Wait, you know what? Nevermind. I'm not gonna stand here and let you ruin my night just because you decided to be a dick again for no reason."

And with that, Tucker spins on his heel and stalks away from Church, leaving him standing by the door like an ass. Just... _fuck that_. Tucker came here to have fun, not to have his clothes, motives and words questioned by Church as though they have a deeper meaning than he intended.

"It's such _bullshit_ ," he mutters.

"What is?"

Tucker whirls around to face North for the second time this week. "Tex came here with Church," he blurts out defiantly, completely unashamed to be hiding behind her reputation. Not with an ex-special ops guy, anyway. That's the kind of thing people invented the phrase 'extenuating circumstances' for.

North laughs easily enough in response. "Don't worry, that won't be necessary this time," he tells Tucker, then suddenly gets serious, amusement fading into something more contrite. "Look, Tucker, I just want to apologize for the way I treated you at the supermarket. Tex was right; it isn't my place to get involved in your business regardless of how concerned I was."

He genuinely seems to mean that, so Tucker decides to let him off the hook just this once. "Nah, don't worry about it," he says breezily, "I've been threatened by way scarier people than you."

North's grin lights up his entire face. "Good to know," he says, reaching out a hand for Tucker to clasp. They shake on it, holding each other's gaze, and quietly puts the rest behind them.

"So, uh," Tucker says when that's done, "Do you know if Wash is gonna show up tonight?"

North shakes his head—not in denial, but in an admission of ignorance. "I don't think even he's figured that out yet," he says wrily, "But he hasn't exactly been in a partying mood lately."

Tucker winces.

North immediately looks repentant. "Sorry about—"

"Nah, forget it," Tucker replies, though he doesn't really need the reminder of how easy it is to fuck something up. Not tonight. Not when he might see Wash again after what feels like forever.

North rests a sympathetic hand on Tucker’s arm. “He hasn’t really told me about his plans for this week,” he says compassionately, “But York might have a better idea of what’s going on in Wash’s head. They’ve been talking a lot lately. You should see what he says.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tucker says, “I can do that.”

He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else for awhile. That’s okay, though, because North clearly doesn’t expect him to. He's kind of like Wash that way. Tucker can see why they’re so close.

Luckily, South shows up before it can get awkward, and Tucker makes his escape back across the room. "Hey, Church!" he calls, "Wait up a second!"

He sees Church heave a huge sigh at the sound of his name, but he still waits for Tucker to catch up to him before he continues toward the seats near the stairs. "What do you want?" he asks irritably.

"Whoa!" Tucker says, hands flying up in his own defense, "Chill the fuck out! I was just gonna ask you if you've seen any hot chicks yet."

"No, Tucker, I have not seen any 'hot chicks.'"

Tucker eyes him suspiciously. "Are you just saying that because Tex might hear and kick your ass for looking at someone else?"

"No!" Church says.

"Ha!" Tucker says, "You totally are!"

“Shut up, Tucker! No, I’m not!”

"Yes, you are," Tucker says gleefully, "You definitely—

"If you don't—wait, who the fuck are you?"

Tucker blinks rapidly, but Church isn't talking to him, just to some woman standing behind him wearing the shortest skirt he's seen in years. She's build like a brick house, too, he notices, with curves for days and a low cut shirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

She gives him the once-over when she sees him looking, bright red lips curving up in a smile. "I saw you from across the room," she says, "And I was wondering if you wanted to dance—"

"Hey, do you mind?" Tucker says, "We're trying to have a conversation."

The woman stares at him in disbelief.

Beside him, Church is doing the same, even as his eyes slam shut on a facepalm. "Seriously, get away from me now," he tells Tucker, groaning as he looks between him and the departing woman, "Because even for you this is getting embarrassing."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You _just_ finished telling me how you wanted to meet hot chicks," Church replies, "But then you go around and turn down what will probably be the only one to pay you any attention. Way to fucking go, Tucker. You're a genius."

Tucker gapes.

"Yeah," Church says, "Congratulations."

Tucker flounders for a moment, limbs flying everywhere as he whirls back and forth between Church and the extremely hot chick who just left. "I...holy shit," he swears as he glances over his shoulder again, "What the fuck was I thinking?"

Church snorts. "I don't think you were thinking at all."

"That's for fucking sure," he says. "Hey, do you think she'll give me a second—"

"Not a chance," Church replies.

Yeah, Tucker didn't really think so. Still, he thinks he should at least try to make an effort at it. For appearances sake, if nothing else, though part of him doesn't want to make the effort. But that's same part that's been keeping an eye on the door since he showed up, and he's trying hard not to listen to that side of him.

Still...what if Wash shows up just as Tucker's getting with some chick? Tucker wouldn't want that to be the first thing he sees when he walks through the door, even if Wash is gonna have to get used to it eventually.

So maybe it's better to avoid women entirely. Y'know, just for tonight. He's not gonna let it turn into a _thing_ or anything, he just won't hit on anyone while Wash is around. Or could be around. Or when it could get back to him, the way Sheila dating Lopez did with Caboose.

But he's not gonna let it turn into a thing!

Tucker sighs and gives one last mournful look back at the woman across the room. "Tonight's gonna be the worst New Year's party ever," he tells Church, "Seriously, like ever. Of all time. I'm not gonna get with anyone tonight."

Church rolls his eyes. "How is that any different from every other New Year's?"

Tucker glares. "You know what? I think I'm gonna go find York."

"Sure. Have fun not making out with anyone!"

Tucker really fucking hates that guy sometimes.

 

* * *

 

York isn't in the den with the rest of them and it's way too cold for him to be outside, so Tucker figures there's a fifty-fifty chance that he's either in the bathroom or making out with Carolina in her old childhood room.

Tucker wrinkles his nose. Or worse than making out with her. But that's not something that he wants to think about, though it would be hilarious to share the idea with Church. Heh. Maybe he should go back downstairs and—

"If you want to go, the bathroom's free."

Tucker's head snaps up. "What?"

York laughs a little at his surprise. "The bathroom?" he says, as he dries his hands on his pants, "If you were waiting for it, it's free."

"I wasn't waiting for it," he says automatically.

York gives him an odd look, which is kind of fair. "Then why were you waiting outside the door?"

"Uh," Tucker says, "I actually came up here to talk to you."

"And whatever you had to say was so important that it couldn't wait until later?" York asks, then shakes his head before Tucker can think up an excuse, "Nevermind. You know, I've been wanting to talk to you too."

Now it's Tucker's turn to give him an odd look.

“Look, Tucker," York says seriously, "Wash is a really good friend of mine. Probably one of the best I’ve ever had, so before you talk to him tonight—or whenever—I think that you and I should have a little talk.“

Oh shit, not this again.

“Let me guess, you’ll kick my ass if I do anything to hurt him?" he says bitterly, inwardly flinching at the reminder, "Dude, I get it. I already got this talk from North. And, okay, maybe I didn’t do a great job of it before, but I was kind of in a weird place when it happened, so—"

York throws his hands up quickly, stopping Tucker mid-sentence. “Trust me, that’s not what I was going to say," he says as he shakes his head again, "You think things were always so simple with me and Carolina? I know how easy it is to hurt someone you care about. The trick is figuring out what to do about it afterwards.”

“Right,” Tucker says warily, “Okay, so what were you talking about then?”

"Nothing!" York says, looking as off-balance and uncomfortable as Tucker himself feels. "Or...I don't know. I guess I just thought there was a few things you needed to know before you made your decision."

Tucker feels his stomach twist preemptively.

“First of all: the guy’s a dork. No, really, probably the biggest dork you’ve ever meet in your life. He actually folds his underwear—can you believe that? Wild, right? I don’t know how you’re going to deal with him.”

Tucker blinks hard.

"Second of all, he's nowhere near as serious as he looks. I know he talks a good game, but he's got a sarcastic streak in him a mile wide. You don't wanna know how many times I—"

“Yeah, can we stop talking about this now?” Tucker interrupts, “You’re kind of starting to creep me out.”

York looks taken aback. “I’m just trying to give you a little friendly advice."

“I know, that’s what’s so creepy. Since when are we friends?”

"Wait, you don’t know?" York says in disbelief, "We hang out together all the time. You get invited to things some of my actual teammates don’t come to! C’mon, Tucker, of course we’re friends.”

“What? No way,” Tucker protests, “You just keep inviting me places because of Carolina!”

“Yeah, I do, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t friends!” York says defensively, “We’re pretty much family, and—

“Dude, what are you _talking_ about?”

York stares at him evenly. “Carolina’s family _is_ my family,” he says. The words fall heavy in the air, leaving Tucker reeling, “And family has to look out for each other. I just want both of you to be happy. Maybe that's as friends, maybe it isn't—"

"It is," Tucker says.

"But either way, I think you should know all the facts before you make a decision."

Tucker snorts. "What, all the facts about Washington?" He rolls his eyes, ignoring the way it causes York's to narrow in warning. "Look, I already knows he's awesome, okay? You don't need to tell me."

York makes a face, but Tucker isn't done talking.

"I know he's a dork. I know he's sarcastic. I know he's loyal and honest and really fucking stubborn, like _all the time_. And I know he hates sweet things and loves watching leaves fall, and he's good with kids even if he doesn't have any of his own. And I know that Church was right and he's way too good for me, but—"

York bursts out laughing, startling Tucker into silence. "Wash is a great guy, Tucker," he replies, "But he's not too good for anybody, least of all you. In fact, after that little speech you gave, I'd say the two of you are more evenly matched than you thought."

Tucker frowns. "What does that mean?"

York laughs again. "It means you should ask him what happened last year."

Tucker doesn't know what that means either.

 

* * *

 

At two minutes to midnight, Tucker makes his way outside. For some reason, he doesn't really want to be in the den when the countdown starts, no longer in the mood for the lovey-dovey couples and the rowdy drunks making out left and right. So he goes outside and sits on the front stairs, admiring the lights leftover from Christmas.

Washington always liked the lights.

He once told Tucker that he and his family like to spend the week before Christmas traveling the streets in search of the best decorated houses. They had a point system and everything. It was the dorkiest thing that Tucker ever heard. Junior liked the idea when he told him, though. They wound up going that very night.

Tucker thinks of calling Wash up and asking him if he's seen any good ones.

But then, he isn't supposed to be talking to Washington anymore, is he? He's supposed to be content with having the guy out of his life entirely, at least until Tucker has made his decision.

Still, he could always call at midnight and blame it on the holiday. You know, just as a way of getting his foot in the door. They could start off wishing each other a happy New Year and then trail off to other things instead, like the Christmas lights and how sorry he is and how much Tucker misses seeing him. It wouldn't have to be a big deal at all. It would just be friendly.

Thankfully, just as he's starting to think up bad excuses to get him what he wants, the door opens behind him and Carolina steps through, snapping him out of a case of really bad judgement.

Tucker plasters a grin on his face and makes a big show of glancing at his watch. “Planning on making York jealous this year?” he asks with a wink, “I always knew you had a thing for me.”

Carolina strolls over to him, the flowing blue skirt she's wearing effortlessly highlighting the sway of her hips. “I can make it up to him later,” she says wickedly, surprising him with her playfulness, "Besides, a little healthy competition is good for him."

And, okay, he knows she doesn’t mean it for real, but his thirteen year old self has the world’s biggest boner right now at the idea of Carolina willingly flirting with him. That's something he dreamed about for years.

But still, he side eyes her when she settles down next to him. "So what are you doing out here, anyway?" he asks her, "I mean, for real."

"What are you?" she returns.

Tucker shrugs.

She studies him for a moment. "I came out here because of you."

He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at her.

"Not because of that," she says drily, "I just had something I wanted to tell you."

Tucker shrugs again. "Okay, shoot."

"You met a year ago today."

For a second, Tucker doesn’t understand what she means, but then it hits him like a two-by-four to the face, leaving him reeling and vaguely stunned. The sheer force of emotion has him glancing away from her, swallowing hard as he looks over the street.

He never did get to hear this story.

Tucker leans into Carolina just enough for their arms to brush against each other comfortingly. "Did he tell you what happened?"

She shakes her head as she gazes off into the distance. "Not even a little bit," Carolina admits, "But it wasn't hard to put two and two together. It wasn't exactly subtle, Tucker."

Tucker shrugs helplessly. "I wouldn't know," he says, "I don't actually remember any of that."

She barely acknowledges him, too busy looking off into the past.

"He wasn’t ready for a relationship back then,” she says, “He wasn’t ready for a long time after, either, but something changed that night. He went on a few dates here and there, but nothing too serious—mostly just a bunch of one night stands, I think, and then there was that thing he had with Connie—“

Tucker bristles at the sound of that. “Yeah, can you get to the point, already?" he says, "Because all I hear is you telling me that Wash has been getting way more action than I have and that’s depressing as fuck to hear.”

“The _point_ ,” Carolina says, “Is that whatever happened between you that night convinced Wash that it was time to move on. It convinced him that he was ready to be happy again. I don’t think you’ll ever understand what that means to him.”

Tucker just takes that in for awhile, gazing over the lit up street filled with leftover Christmas decorations. He has to take his own down soon, he remembers, preferably before Junior gets back from his mom's.

He closes his eyes. "Do you really think he'll come?"

“I don’t think it matters,” she says, “The two of you will figure things out either way.”

For the first time in his life, Tucker hopes that Carolina is right about something.

 

* * *

 

"Tucker, what the hell are you still doing out here?"

Tucker jolts awake from dreams of Christmas in Oregon, body shooting up so fast that the blood rushes to his head and sends a sharp spike of pain through it. It's like having a hangover, but without the fun of the night before.

"What the fuck was that for?" he grumbles at first, but then he remembers what night it is and sits up straight in pure excitement—excitement that only rises when he checks on the time. "Did Wash come yet? Is he still in the den?"

"At four-oh-fucking-clock in the morning? No, Tucker, he isn't the den."

Tucker shakes off the disappointment running through his veins. "But he came, right?" he  asks hopefully, "Even if I missed him, he still—"

Church slowly shakes his head.

"Oh," Tucker says, and says nothing for a long time after that, ignoring the way his hands are freezing in the cold darkness of the early morning. It seems less important somehow, or farther away, almost like it doesn't matter at all.

"Tucker—"

"I'm cold," he lies quickly, "And really fucking tired." Too tired to drive, to be honest, and he doubts Church is gonna be nice enough to give him a ride home. "Think your dad'll mind if I sleep here tonight?"

Church snorts. "Well, considering that he hasn't moved your stuff out of your room..."

"Cool," Tucker says dismissively. He climbs to feet and stumbles up the stairs, narrowly avoiding bumping into Church as he shoves his way inside the door. The house is eerily quiet for some reason, almost as though the dozens of people who showed up were never actually there at all.

"Everybody else left half an hour ago," Church explains when Tucker looks around, disoriented, "You were the only one who decided to stick around."

"You're here," Tucker points out.

"Only because the Director wouldn't let me go unless I took care of your sorry ass," Church replies. He follows Tucker up the stairs to the bedroom next to Church's own—the one that used to be a guest room before Tucker took over and made it his own,  

Even now it feels like home.

Tucker plops down on the bed and feels his stomach roll at the thought. "I think I’m gonna be sick,” he tells Church plaintively, “And I'm not even drunk this time.”

“Well, aim for the other side of the bed, asshole, because I’m not picking puke out of my sneakers tonight,” Church replies.

That’s Church for you. Always filled with so much fucking sympathy. He’s even worse than Washington on leg day, though a lot less prone to getting revenge via the cunning use of exercise equipment.

“Fuck off,” Tucker mumbles into the bedspread, unsure if he’s talking to the memories or Church. It could go either way to be honest; he isn’t exactly in the mood to be thinking about Washington right now. Even though it seems he can’t help but do it.

Tucker sighs and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and feeling completely numb.

"He didn't come," Tucker says.

Church rubs his forehead for a second, looking strangely tired. “Yeah, Tucker, I know,” he says quietly.  

"I thought he was gonna come."

"I know," Church says again.

"He didn't come because of me," Tucker says, and other people would lie to him or make something up so he doesn't feel bad, but this is Church and he's an asshole. This is Church and he's Tucker's best friend.

"Yeah," Church says, "He didn't come because of you."

"Okay," Tucker says, "I think I'm gonna go to sleep now."

Church nods and says nothing at all.

 


	15. Interlude: Odds and Ends

He's taken to thinking about Washington before he goes to sleep at night.

It's not something he consciously does or anything, but it keeps happening every night. He'll be in the middle of thinking about work or television—or worse, in the middle of jerking off—and then Washington will pop into his head and ruin any chance of getting to sleep. Or, y'know, of getting _off_ , because he's not exactly turned on by guilt and anxiety.

The point is, it's starting to become a problem.

He doesn't know what he's going to do about it. He doesn't know if there's anything he can do about it. All he knows is that he can’t stop and he’s not entirely sure he wants to. At least this way he remembers the details. At least this way he remembers their conversations. He can handle that at the end of the day. What he can't handle is the possibility of forgetting.

It's still really fucking depressing, though.

It's enough to drive him to distraction in the middle of the night. Hell, it's enough to drive him to distraction in the middle of the _day_. He's started thinking up stupid schemes just to get everything to stop, like maybe if he lies about what he wants or pretends to make a decision that'll make everything okay again.

And maybe it will.

At the very least, it'll end this horrible in-between they're in.

 

* * *

 

**Day 16**

"Psst!"

"Psst!"

Tucker pauses halfway through the email he was composing to Kimball, hands still hovering over the keys. "Hey, Andersmith!" he hears in a stage whisper, "What do you think is wrong with Tucker?"

"Not now, Palomo."

"'Cause I heard from Bitters who heard from Grif that Tucker's girlfriend dumped him on Christmas," Palomo continues blithely, "But he isn't acting heartbroken. He just kinda looks sick. Do you think she gave him an STD?"

Tucker twitches.

Palomo inhales sharply on a gleeful gasp. "Or maybe he gave _her_ an STD," he says, "And that's why she had to dump him. Oh, man! Or maybe he got her pregnant—"

"Palomo!" Tucker snaps.

Palomo scrambles into an upright position, almost falling on his ass thanks to him leaning too far over on his chair. He winces once he realizes that he was overheard, almost cringing away from Tucker's desk.

"Yeah, Tucker?" Palomo says.

Tucker sighs, suddenly too tired to deal with this at all. "Palomo,"  he says, trailing off into another sigh, "Palomo, just..."

"...shut the fuck up?" Palomo finishes uncertainly.

"Yeah," Tucker says, "That."

Palomo ducks his head and goes back to his work, something that Tucker finds almost impossible to do. It isn't all on Palomo, either; he's been distracted all day long, too scatterbrained and discombobulated to finish half of the work he's started.

All because Washington missed another barbecue.

It's the third party he's missed since that afternoon in the kitchen, and it still doesn't seem right without him there. Hanging out with others alone just isn't the same; there's no one to back him up when he's making fun of Church or to trade looks with when Grif and Simmons are doing their thing, and somehow the den itself seems ten times quieter without Washington being there.

It's depressing how much he's come to rely on Wash's presence.

"Hey, Tucker?"

He closes his eyes and pushes back on the urge to bang his head against his desk repeatedly. " _What_ , Palomo?" he growls out irritably, looking up to see him standing beside Tucker's desk, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"You can yell at me some more if it'll make you feel better."

Tucker pauses and tilts his head in surprise, blinking rapidly at the offer. "Wait, what?" he says, his bewilderment evident in his voice, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You can yell at me," Palomo repeats earnestly, "I know that makes you feel better because you always look like a million times less stressed after you've been telling me off for awhile. So if you wanna do that again, you can."

Tucker feels a twinge of guilt at that—just a twinge, nothing else, but it's enough to have his voice softening the slightest, barest amount possible. "Palomo?" he says, "Get the fuck back to your desk and leave me alone."

Palomo beams as he goes.

 

* * *

 

**Day 17**

Tucker drives past the gym on his way home from work. He'd like to tell himself it's because it's a shorter route or something, but the truth is its a few miles out of his way, and it'll take him about eight minutes longer to get home than it would if he went his usual way.

For a moment, he thinks about going inside.

Not to see Washington of course, but to say hello to Church and Carolina. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? Hell, odds are that Washington won't even be there at this hour; after all, he has no reason to stick around afterwards, not with Tucker no longer training with him. He could totally get away with going inside.

And if Washington _were_ there...well, it wouldn't be Tucker's fault, would it? There's no way he could have known. Even Wash has to realize that. So Tucker pulls into the parking lot and drives to his usual spot, then calmly walks around to the front of the building, moving confidently as though he belongs wherever it is he's going.

He promptly bumps into North on his way through the door.

"Tucker?" North says in surprise, "What are you doing here? Are you here to—" His expression shifts abruptly, turning into something more sympathetic. "You know he isn't here, right?"

"Who, Church?" Tucker asks. He looks at North through narrowed eyes, defensiveness battling nervousness for control over the conversation. "Yeah, I know. I'm totally here to see Carolina."

“Well, I'm sure you are," North says kindly, "But she isn't here either. She and York had tickets for an amateur MMA match tonight. They already left an hour ago.

"Oh," Tucker says, feeling off-balance. He says it as though he isn't sure, as if the lost feeling in his chest is something that belongs out in the open with everything Tucker isn't afraid to show. "Then I guess I should go?"

"Maybe you should," North agrees.

Tucker turns around stiltedly and walks right out of the building without so much as a goodbye, too lost in his own thoughts to respond the way he should.

He doesn't look back once.

 

* * *

 

**Day 18**

The one good thing about Washington no longer training him is that Tucker gets to spend more time with his son. It's about the only good thing about it, however, because Tucker's started to miss the workouts, and part of him even longs for leg day.

It’s beginning to become a problem.

Still, at least he has Junior to take his mind off it.

Tucker sprawls lazily on the couch and takes another bite out of dinner. “Hey, do you wanna have pizza tomorrow?” he asks Junior, "Because I don't think I'm gonna feel like cooking tomorrow."

“But you didn’t cook _today_ ,” Junior points out.

Tucker scowls. “I cooked!”

Junior looks down at his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“That totally counts as cooking!” he says defensively, “You’re eating something, aren’t you?”

Junior side eyes him, giving Tucker Carolina's most judgmental look—and speaking of whom, he finally remembers something he was supposed to do days ago. "Oh, shit," Tucker says, "I forgot to tell you what Carolina said."

Junior's head snaps toward him like a whip. "What did she say?"

"I don't know," Tucker says, "Something about a package." He watches Junior's eyes light up in response and feels suspicion well up inside. "Why, what's up? What are you two planning?"

Instead of answering, Junior puts his sandwich down on his plate and lies prone on the floor, digging under the couch for something. "She said you'd never look under there unless you dropped the remote," he tells him when Tucker looks at him expectantly, "So she said it was safe to leave it there."

"Leave what there?" Tucker asks.

"Your gift. Aunt Carolina said that you were upset because you couldn't make up your mind about something," Junior explains as he climbs back to his feet, "So we got you something to help you. Aunt Carolina wrapped it for me."

Tucker looks at down at the sheer amount of scotch tape on the gift and nods. Carolina always did suck at wrapping presents.

"What is it?" he asks as he takes it from Junior. He turns it over in his hands, shaking it slightly for some sign of what's inside. It's square and it thuds a little inside, but that's all he notices. There's no other clue as to what it might be.

"Open it up!" Junior says. He bounces a little excitedly, then throws himself on the couch next to Tucker. "It's really, really cool, Dad."

Tucker shrugs and puts his sandwich down, then tears the paper off of the present, turning the box around again when he's done. "It's a Magic 8-Ball," he says bemusedly.

"Aunt Carolina said she had to order it online because none of the stores had it," Junior explains, and Tucker can definitely see why. He thought those things went out of style in the nineties. He doesn't know why Junior even knows what it is.

Tucker gives it a weird look. “And you thought _I’d_ want to use it?”

Junior’s face falls.

Oh shit.

“I mean, of course I want to use it,” Tucker says in a rush, “It’s awesome! I was just surprised you knew I wanted one.”

Junior squints suspiciously.

“Really,” Tucker says, adding in an earnest look, “I had one when I was a kid. I used to ask it stuff all the time. That’s how I knew when to ask my first girlfriend out.”

It’s not true, of course, but Junior doesn’t know that, and it makes that disappointed look leave his face. That's all that matters in the end, not Tucker’s dislike of all those fortune-telling games that were so popular when he was in school.

To prove it, Tucker pulls the Magic 8-Ball out of the box. He studies it, turning it over in his hands, marveling at how something so cheesy could've ever been as popular as it was.

He really wants to throw it away.

If it were anyone but Junior giving it to him, he would have, but he knows he can't do something like that to his kid, at least not without being a shitty fucking father. And Tucker, for all of his other faults, likes to think that when it comes to parenting he's doing the best that he can. So that means he _has_ to keep it.

Tucker puts a grin on his face, then closes his eyes and scrunches up his face, pretending to think about something as hard as he can. Out loud, he says, "Making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches totally counts as cooking, right?"

He shakes it and then opens his eyes, peering down at the answer.

_Most likely._

Tucker smirks and shows Junior the answer, who glances down at it and then makes a face at both the toy and his father. "I _guess_ it does," Junior says reluctantly, "But I think that's cheating."

"Pshh, whatever," Tucker replies, "I'm totally right and you know it."

Junior rolls his eyes and changes the subject. "Can you help me with my math homework?" he asks Tucker, "I'm supposed to remember my times tables."

"And you want me to quiz you?"

Junior nods.

"Yeah, sure," Tucker says. He reaches for his sandwich and finishes it in two bites, barely chewing it before he gulps it down. "Just get all your homework stuff done now and I'll test you when you're done."

"Thanks," Junior says as he jumps off the couch. He wanders out of the living room without another word, leaving Tucker behind with a present he hates and has no idea what he should do with.

Tucker shrugs at it as if he doesn't care, but deep down inside an idea is starting to spark:

What if he did use it to decide what to do about Washington?

He rolls the toy over and over in his hand, musing on how good of an idea it is. After all, he just needs to make a decision, right? And it doesn't matter what it might be, not really, not if all roads lead to getting Wash back. So why not let something else decide?

Tucker nods.

Forget good—it’s a _great_ idea. Possibly the best one he ever had. Or, well, the best one that Junior and Carolina's ever had, though Tucker suspects that one of them wasn't exactly what you'd call serious about it.

"Should I tell Washington I don't want to date him?"

Tucker holds his breath as he shakes the 8-Ball, asking, praying for an answer to the question that's been haunting him since that afternoon in the kitchen. It doesn't have to be real or magical to work, it just has to make a decision for him that's impossible for him to make himself.

_Signs point to yes._

Tucker scowls and shoves it back in the box.

Those things are bullshit anyway.

 

* * *

 

**Day 19**

He takes to carrying the 8-Ball around anyway, dragging it with him wherever he goes and asking it every question on his mind. Sometimes it's about Washington, sometimes it's not, but no matter what question he asks of the 8-Ball, he's never quite satisfied with the answer—and every time he asks _that_ question, he always gets the same response.

_As I see it, yes._

_Without a doubt._

_It is decidedly so._

"What the _fuck_?" Tucker bursts out in the middle of the pizza parlor, "What the fuck is wrong with this stupid thing?"

He gets a lot of strange looks from the people around him and one oddly sympathetic look from some guy standing next to him. "Those things are dumb as fuck," the guy agrees as he glares at the toy, "You should just throw it in the garbage."

"Yeah, well, my kid got it for me, so..."

The guy nods knowingly. "I hear that. My ex-girlfriend got one for me. It told me to break up with her, " he tells Tucker, "Worst mistake of my life. But I still love her, y'know? I visit her in prison all the time."

"Yeah," Tucker says, "Wait, what?"

The guy waves it off dismissively. "She robbed a bank after I broke it off," he explains as if it were nothing, "Said she was gonna win me back with lots of money and shit, like one of those big gestures in the movies. It was fucking romantic."

"Yeah," Tucker repeats slowly, "That sounds, uh..."

"Two large pepperoni pies!"

"Oh, thank fuck," Tucker says under his breath, then hurries forward to claim his food, shoving a twenty onto the counter in payment. He doesn't bother saying goodbye to the guy standing next to him, but he gets a wave as he leaves regardless, like they’ve actually bonded with each other or some crap.

Tucker pauses as he puts the pizza into the car. “Fuck, I didn't just bond with that dude, right?”

He takes out the 8-Ball and shakes it for good measure.

_Better not tell you now._

“You are _such_ an asshole,” he tells the toy.

 

* * *

 

**Day 20**

When Tucker gets home from work, the first thing he does is drag Junior off the couch and say, "C'mon, Junior, we're going for a run."

Junior looks at him skeptically. "I thought you said you should only run if someone's chasing you," he says, "And that Aunt Carolina was twisted for doing it for fun."

Well, _yeah_ , but that's only because it's true.

“She _is_ twisted,” Tucker insists, “Have you seen how much she runs every day? Like ten miles or something, I don’t fucking know. All I’m asking for is a ten minute jog.”

Junior still doesn't look too eager to start exercising with his father. “I don’t want to jog,” he tells Tucker firmly, “I want to stay at home and play video games and eat the leftover pizza from yesterday.”

“Hey, you can do that later,” Tucker replies, "Hell, you can do that anyday. But you and I never go jogging together."

The expression on Junior's face tells him that there's a reason for that, but he doesn't say anything else negative, just shrugs his shoulders in a way that looks very unconvinced and sighs in an overly dramatic way.

"Okay," Junior says reluctantly.

They change into their sweats and put on their sneakers, halting once they're outside the door so that Tucker can show Junior how to stretch like Washington taught him. Once done with that, they head down the block in a random direction, starting at more of a brisk walk than anything else—largely because Tucker's legs are longer, but also because he hasn't exercised in nearly a month and he's pretty sure neither of them could handle doing things at Wash's normal pace.

For the first few minutes, Junior follows along just fine. No, _better_ than fine, despite his shorter stature, because he has a thousand times more energy than Tucker had when he first started training and twice as much patience for boring exercise stuff.

The real issue comes when they start to speed it up.

It's like once they decide to move into a jog, Junior decides that all hope for his survival is slowly drifting away with every block they put between him and the apartment. It's all Tucker can do to keep him going; he tries keeping the path as flat as he can and stopping often for drinks of water, but Junior's feet starts flagging after a half an hour and they've barely gone anyplace at all.

Finally, Junior gives up entirely and collapses on the edge of someone's front lawn, legs and arms sprawled out theatrically in a pose that thoroughly accomplishes his goal of looking completely and utterly incapable of moving.

"I hate jogging," Junior says pitifully.

Tucker crouches next to him on the hard concrete. "Hey," he says with a sympathetic look for Junior, smiling a little when he gets a scowl in return, "I know this is hard right now, but I'm not gonna push you farther than you can go, okay?"

He feels a chill go down his spine at the familiar words. Wash said that to him once, he recalls, or something close enough to it for it to count. Close enough for Tucker to know what his next line should be.

"You're tired," he says numbly, "But you still made it through it, didn't you?"

"So?" Junior replies, looking mutinous.

"So that means you can handle this."

Tucker wonders if he can do the same.

 

* * *

 

**Day 21**

The day of the barbecue is just as sunny as any other day in Blood Gulch.

Tucker doesn't know why he expected otherwise—the weather rarely changes where they're at, and even wintertime is only a dozen or so degrees cooler than normal—but some part of him still expects the weather outside to match his mood.

This is the third barbecue that Wash has missed.

Tucker sighs as he makes his way across the yard. It's not as though he expected any different, but it'd be lying to say he hadn't hoped for something else, especially with how long it's been since they've seen each other.

It's really starting to get pathetic.

He's acting like Church whenever Tex leaves him for a few months, or Caboose whenever Church is gone. Like Simmons and Grif whenever they're away from each other for more than an hour.

He's acting like Washington was so much more to him than he was.

It's not right, and there's something in him that rebels at the feeling; something in him that has him running scared whenever he thinks of the idea. Something that squirms in his chest and holds it in a vise.

Something that knows it secretly isn't as dumb as it sounds.

It's the same part of him that always leaves him waiting for someone that he knows will never come.

So Tucker doesn't leave.

He doesn't leave when the clock strikes six and people begin to leave for the night. He doesn't leave when the clock strikes eight and everyone but the clean up crew is gone. He doesn't leave when the clock strikes ten and the Director makes his way upstairs for bed.

Tucker stays there all that time.

And then, when the clock finally strikes eleven, Tucker does the single dumbest thing he’s ever done since that afternoon in the kitchen:

He calls up Wash.

It rings five times before Washington finally decides to answer it. Tucker pictures him miles across town, sitting in his bed and staring down at his phone in silence, frantically debating whether or not he wants to pick up or let the call go to voicemail.

Tucker wonders why he made the choice to talk.

But whatever the reason he had for doing it, Washington decides to speak to him.

"Tucker? Why are you calling me up at—"

"You didn't come to the party," Tucker blurts out.

Washington pauses. "What?"

Tucker shifts nervously on the couch in the den, glad for a brief second not to be having this conversation face to face. "North said he was gonna try to drag you to the New Year's party," he says, "But you didn't make an appearance all night. And you didn't come to the barbecues either."

_I waited for you_ , is what he doesn't say.

"Tucker," Wash says, sounding frustrated, "It's only been three weeks"

"I know," Tucker says hastily, "I just—I wanted to know if you were okay." He swallows hard, forcing himself to continue. "Junior said that Theta said that you were...and then North said...and then you didn't come to the party and—

"Are you drunk?" Washington asks.

"No," Tucker says, completely honestly, "I didn't have a drop to drink all afternoon."

"Then you should be sober enough to realize why I didn't come that night," Washington says, "And you should be more than sober enough to realize that you shouldn't have called me up tonight."

"I am," Tucker says with a sigh, "I just do stupid stuff when it comes to you."

Washington inhales sharply. "I'm going to hang up on you now."

Panic surges through him, forcing the air from his lungs. For a moment, Tucker struggles to breathe, heartbeat hammering at the thought of Wash leaving him for a second time. "Wait!" he yelps at the top of his lungs, "Don't—"

There’s a wordless noise of exasperation on the other end.

Tucker halts, taken aback by the sound. "Sorry,” he says in a voice that almost but not quite manages to sound detached, “Just...Carolina said you weren't angry with me."

"She was wrong," Washington says drily.

Tucker swallows hard around the boulder in his throat. "She also...she also told me that you left that afternoon because you got what it's like to be confused," he tells Wash, "And that you left because you were worried about both of us getting hurt."

Wash goes quiet for a little while, nothing on the other side of the phone except the barely there sound of breathing. Tucker holds on to that like a lifeline. "She wasn't wrong about that," Wash says finally, "Not about either of those things."

Tucker breathes a sigh of relief.

"I just..." Wash says, "I know what it's like when somebody makes you think things you're not ready to think. And I know how easy it is to hurt someone else when you don't know how you really feel.

Washington almost sounds ashamed when he speaks—no, not ashamed, not exactly, but regretful, maybe, if that's the word. Sober and sorry about something he did that he can't quite forgive himself for.

"What do you mean?" Tucker asks in a low voice, "What did you do?"

For a second, he doesn't think Wash will answer. Then, in a halting, shaky speech, Washington lays out the story of the first guy he ever had a thing for.

"I was fifteen years old when he moved in across the street," Washington begins, "This boy. This new kid who went to my school. His name was Rashid. He had an accent everyone teased him about. Everyone but me. He got bullied a lot for it, but I thought it made him sound..."

Washington cuts himself off, as if even now he's afraid to admit how it made him feel.

"I never said anything to him, not at first. I just watched him riding his skateboard up and down the block everyday after school. He must have seen me watching, because one day he walked up to me and asked me if I wanted to learn."

Washington huffs, sounding more bitter than amused. "I didn't even realize why I was so excited," he says, "But I knew I loved spending time with him. I'd even find reasons to make our time together last just a little bit longer."

Tucker feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"I just thought it was because I liked skateboarding," Wash admits, then laughs a little at his own naïveté—a harsh and terrible sounding laugh, but laughter nonetheless, "I thought it even though I never cared about it before. So when he asked me if I wanted to go to a skate park with him, I of course said yes immediately."

Tucker clutches his phone, unwilling to breathe or speak or do anything that would break the spell that's over them.

"I spent three hours watching Rashid show off, completely unable to look away. And then, on the way back...five blocks from home, he stops me in the middle of the street," Washington says. He laughs, and that bitter tone gets even sharper. "I remember...the sun was setting. I remember that. The sun was setting when he kissed me."

Tucker thinks about the way Wash's hair shone in the setting sun that afternoon in the car. He remembers it, the way it looked like a halo, and he thinks he understands why Rashid did what he did.

"I ran home," Wash says in a pained voice, "I punched him and I ran home and I never talked to him again. Not even when he started getting bullied for other things." He swallows hard, the click of his throat audible even over the phone. "I didn't talk to him and I didn't look at my skateboard for three years."

Tucker nods slowly. "He's the boy you knew who had to transfer, isn't he?"

"Yes," Wash says, "Yes, he is."

Tucker nods again, eyes squeezing shut of their own accord. "But you were just a kid when you did that," he points out, "You were just a teenager."

"You aren't too much older in terms of maturity," Washington says wryly.

"Don't let anybody tell you that you aren't funny," Tucker says in a voice that's heavy with sarcasm, "Because you're a fucking riot, you know that?"

They're both smiling—even over the phone it's obvious—and it feels good to joke with Wash again. It feels like something approaching normal. Like they aren't as broken as he thought.

It's the best feeling he's had in awhile.

So when he and Wash finally hang up a half an hour later, he's not upset or worried or anything like that. He isn't left anxiously staring at his phone in silence, wondering what he can do to make it alright. He isn't upset because he already knows.

And he's finally ready to think about it.


	16. Decisions

The only problem about the whole Wash thing is that after three and a half months of not thinking about it, Tucker's kind of at a loss as to where to begin.

He knows where the movies would tell him to start. The R-rated ones would say with porn—with lots and lots and lots of porn. They’d tell him to download every thing he could find on the internet and see if any of it gets him hot. The PG-13 chick flicks would tell him start with clubbing; tell him to go out there and flirt with some random guy in a bar just to get his confidence up.

But frankly, both of those things make Tucker want to die just a little.

It’s just...he’s not gonna hook up with some random dude, okay? He doesn’t even want to try. And he definitely, _definitely_ does not want to look at some bored looking porn star getting plowed by his coworker. No fucking thanks. If that's what it takes to figure things out, then Tucker is just gonna have to pass.

Besides, neither of those things seem right for the situation. Neither of those things seem right for Wash. So Tucker does the next best thing and goes straight to the expert for a clue on how to get his head on straight.

"So you know how you like to sleep with chicks and dudes, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Sister says, "Why, do you wanna have a threesome?"

"No," Tucker says in confusion, "Wait, yeah—wait, what? No. I don't. Uh, I guess. Why, are you offering?"

"Pshh, no. You're the one that booty called me."

"What?" Tucker says, “No, I didn’t!” He takes a glance at the time on his cable box and winces. "Okay, I know that's what it looks like, but no. I'm just calling you up to talk about all this shit that’s been on my mind lately."

"Like threesomes?"

“No!” Tucker says again. He wonders if this is what Washington feels like whenever he’s having a conversation with her. Then he wonders if Wash ever feels like this when he’s having a conversation with _Tucker_ , because if it is, he might owe Wash another apology.

“Uh, okay,” Sister says, “But if you don’t want a booty call, then why are you calling me up at four in the morning?”

“Because I knew you’d be up?” Tucker replies, “And, like, you were the only person I know other than Wash who knows what I’m going through. I mean, except Grif and Simmons, but they’re kind of weird. I think they’re more confused than me.”

Sister snorts in agreement.

He waits for her to say something else, but after a long time passes without comment, Tucker gets tired of waiting for a response. “So,” he says pointedly, “Do you have any advice for me or what?”

“About what?” Sister asks.

Tucker inhales through his nose. then slowly lets it go again. “About liking dudes and chicks!” he tells her again. Or at least he thinks he’s telling her again. He’s beginning to lose track of what’s going on.

“Oh!” she says, “Yeah, it’s cool.”

Tucker blinks hard. “What?”

“Liking chicks and dudes,” she says earnestly, “It’s really cool. You should totally try it. Hey, do you wanna come out to this club with me? I know this chick who’ll let us in for free, and I know the bartender, so he’ll let us _drink_ for free, and I know this—”

“Nevermind,” Tucker says, “I think I’m gonna try something else.”

 

* * *

 

So he tries to look at pictures of men. Pictures of men he knows are hot. Pictures of men who have won magazine awards for being as hot as they are. Pictures of tall men, short men, buff men, scrawny men, men with long hair and men with short.

But it's like his eyes don't want to look at them. Like they've been trained to stray away, to avoid the sight, and being forced to do it after all this time just makes Tucker feel queasy and wrong.

He doesn't want to look at pictures of random men. He doesn't want to.

So instead, he looks at pictures of Wash. He has a few in his camera from the barbecues—not many, because Wash avoids cameras like the plague, but enough that Tucker has more than a few of them to work with.

He used to look at them all the time.

He hasn't recently, but he used to almost every night, staring at them while plotting ways to trick Wash into letting him take more. That probably should've been his first clue, to be honest, but Tucker wasn't thinking in those terms back then. He's barely thinking in those terms now.

But maybe it's about time he tried.

He scrolls through his gallery until he gets to one of his favorites; a picture of Washington sprawled out on the backyard lawn, spread-eagle and boneless from one too many beers after a being dragged into a drinking contest with Tucker and York. He's lightly flushed and smiling lazily at Tucker through the camera lens, and Tucker remembers the way his breath caught in his lungs while watching Washington lying there like that.

Back then, he thought it was from laughing too hard.

These days he's not too sure.

After all, there’s gotta be something weird about how often he’s stared at this picture, right? Something strange about how many times he looked at it before he went to bed, memorizing that stupid smile and the gentle look in those usually steely eyes.

During that three week period where he and Wash weren’t talking, that picture was the only thing that got him to sleep—not because of nightmares or anything, but because it was so hard to think of restful things when all he could do is berate himself. But that picture had him thinking of better times. And yeah, sometimes thinking about those better times only made the self-flagellating thing worse, but that picture…that picture of Washington held him together more nights than he’s comfortable admitting to.

Maybe, Tucker thinks to himself, just maybe that actually means something after all.

He thinks about that as he drifts off to sleep, measuring meaning in smiles and softness, rolling the familiar reels as he wonders if Washington ever felt that way back. He weighs each memory in terms of likelihood, giving each a mental score.

Those times Tucker helped him with his nightmares.

That time on the roof that Tucker forgot.

Maybe then. Maybe then.

Tucker gazes at the picture again and hesitates for the briefest of moments. He wants to call Wash now, wants to ask him himself, but despite their conversation not so long ago, the two of them still aren’t on talking terms and they won’t be until Tucker makes a decision.

So fuck it, maybe it’s time to do something drastic. Like, you know, calling up the absolute last person anyone would ever think to ask for advice:

Washington’s ex.

"So,” Tucker says determinedly, “You came out when you were in high school, right?"

"Sure did, Tucker," Doc replies without missing a beat, "It was great! My parents threw me a party and invited everyone we knew. Just about everyone came—our neighborhood was super inclusive!"

"Yeah, yeah, great," Tucker says, not really interested in those particular details, "But, I mean, how did you know if you were gay or not?"

"Um, that's kind of a weird question," Doc says. He hums a little, considering it carefully. "I don't know, Tucker. I've just kind of always known, even when I was Junior's age. I used to have the biggest crush on this boy named Marco who sat in front of the class. Every day, I would—"

"Okay, right," Tucker interrupts, "But what if you _didn't_ know?"

"Didn't know I was gay?"

"Right!" Tucker says, "What if you spent your whole life looking at chicks and thinking, 'Man, I wanna tap that,' and then some guy comes along out of nowhere and all of a sudden you're thinking about maybe trying something with him one day. But you still like chicks! It's just, maybe you like a guy a little too."

"Gee, Tucker, I don't know if I can help you with that," Doc tells him, "I don't know what it's like to struggle with suddenly thinking you might be bisexual." There's a pause of realization then, during which Tucker can practically hear Doc's eyes going wide over the phone. ”Oh my gosh, Tucker, is this about you? Are you coming out to me? I’m really flattered you feel you can come to me for this sort of thing. Oh _gosh_ , I’m getting all choked up!”

"Doc, _calm down_. I'm just curious."

"Oh," Doc says, sounding a little disappointed, "That's too bad."

Tucker makes a face.

"Well, I'm really sorry I can't be more of a help," Doc says apologetically, "Have you thought about asking Wash? He's been through the exact same thing, so he'd know better than I would."

"No!" Tucker yelps.

Fuck no. It's bad enough he almost ruined everything once by opening his mouth without being sure; he's not gonna call Wash up and do it all over again. He may not be the most sensitive guy, but even he realizes it would be kind of messed up and would probably send the wrong message.

Or the right message. Fuck, he doesn't know.

"Oh, right," Doc says, "I heard you two had some kind of falling out. Hmm..well, have you thought about asking O'Malley, then? He used to have a huge crush on Tex before he and I got together."

Tucker rolls his eyes in sheer disbelief. "Holy crap," he says incredulously, "Can this group get any more incestuous?"

Doc laughs a little, playing along. "Maybe if you and Sister got together."

Tucker smirks to himself, remember that one beach party a couple of summers ago. "Ha! Too late for that one!" he boasts, "Already been there, done that and bought the stained underwear."

" _Tucker!_ "

"Yeah, sorry," Tucker says, "That was nasty, even for me."

Doc hmphs like a disapproving old man, which results in an awkward silence that goes on for far too long. Neither of them makes a move to break the stalemate, though Tucker knows exactly what he wants to say.

Finally, Tucker blows out a tired breath and mutters into the phone. "Hey, Doc, when you were up here about a month ago..."

"Yeah?"

"You and Wash didn't, I mean," Tucker begins, swallowing hard when the rest of the sentence stalls in his throat. He fumbles for the right words for a moment. He doesn't want this to turn into a _thing_ between the two of them. After all, Doc was sort of his friend, and Junior sort of loved him, and it wouldn't be right to mess that up just because Tucker is feeling jealous and insecure.

Still...

"The two of you didn't hook up that weekend, did you?"

"What!?" Doc exclaims, giving an overly dramatic gasp of shock, "No, of course not! O’Malley and I are pretty exclusive these days. Why would you ask that?”

Tucker fidgets and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Oh my gosh,” Doc exclaims again, “Is that why you’ve been asking all of these questions? Do you have a crush on Washington?”

“No!” Tucker shouts, then fidgets some more, shoulders slumping as he rethinks the question. “Crap, I don’t know...maybe? Ugh, I don’t know how I feel anymore.”

Doc considers that for a second. “Well...do you like him?” he asks patiently, “Wait, no, I mean do you like hanging out with him?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says automatically. He blinks hard as he realizes how fast that came out, a little stunned by his own honesty. But no other answer could ever make sense. Of course he likes hanging out with Wash.  Of course he does. “I mean, he’s way too serious sometimes, but yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“And do you think he’s attractive?”

Tucker goes tense and quiet at that, not entirely sure how to answer the question. He hasn’t thought about it before, not really, not even after all the weird dreams and the strange jealousy and the way his fingers would sometimes tingle for hours after they touched.

“You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to,” Doc says soothingly, “I’m not here to judge. Just, well, do you think about him when you’re not together?”

A longer pause.

When Tucker finally responds, his voice is unexpectedly hushed and solemn. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “Yeah, I do. I think about him all the fucking time.”

“Then maybe you should concentrate on that for awhile,” Doc replies with a smile in his voice—one that is so kind and so comforting that it makes Tucker feel grateful for choosing him as a friend.

“Thanks, Doc,” Tucker says softly, “I really owe you one.”

“Anytime. And Tucker?”

“Yeah, Doc?”

“Good luck with Wash.”

 

* * *

 

So he thinks about it all day long, and when he gets home from work, he sits on the couch and thinks about it some more. He goes back over their time together and reviews every conversation he can remember, searching for signs of how he felt and looking at his own actions with the benefit of hindsight.

He notices patterns straight away. He notices how often he’d linger at Wash’s side for no reason at all, talking to him for minutes or even hours about stupid things and important things and everything in between. He notices how often he talked about Wash when he wasn’t around, inventing reasons to turn the conversation his way. He notices all the little ways he’d reach out to touch, searching for a reason to bring their hands and lips and bodies closer, heart pounding hard all the while..

And then he thinks about all the times they were alone together and Tucker found himself saying things he never thought he’d say and doing things he’d never thought he’d do because it was too scary or too emotional or because he was just too…

Too straight.

But Washington has a way of making Tucker do a lot of things he never thought he’d do, because Wash thinks he’s awesome in all the most important ways and the rest of it stops mattering when measured up to that. When he finally understands that, he realizes that he can’t keep quiet about it any longer.

“I think I might have a thing for Wash,” Tucker confesses to the rest of the room.

“What are you doing?” Simmons cries out in anguish. He jumps up from the couch and pulls at his hair in distress. “You don’t fucking interrupt when Ned Stark is about to get his head cut off—that’s the best part!”

Tucker rolls his eyes.

“We already know it’s the best part,” Grif says irritably from his position on the floor, “You know how we know that, Simmons? Because we’ve already watched this episode. Everyone has, even that little old lady down the hall, and she doesn’t even own a tv because she thinks that it’s the devil’s box!”

“But you don’t understand,” Simmons whines, “We _have_ to watch all the episodes again before the new season starts—that’s how it _works!_ And since the fucking episode ended while we were talking about it, we have to go back and watch this one all over again!”

Grif jumps up angrily and gets all up in Simmons’ face, jabbing a finger into his chest. “No, Simmons, you are not doing this to me again,” he says, “You are not gonna ruin another perfectly good show with your weird obsessive tendencies. Not again! Not after The Wire!”

“This is stupid,” Tucker grumbles, “Can we get back to my problem?”

Simmons huffs and throws himself on the couch next to Tucker. “Fine,” he says peevishly, “Go ahead and tell us all your stupid problems. It’s not like we were in the middle of doing something vitally important or anything.”

“Vitally important? Seriously, Simmons?”

“I think I might have a thing for Wash,” Tucker repeats quickly, trying to get the sentence out before either of them can start arguing again. “Like, you know, a _thing_ , like maybe I wanna date him for real or something. I don’t fucking know.”

Simmons opens his mouth and lets out a sound of pure rage. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he complains shrilly, “You interrupted our Game of Thrones marathon for that? Guess what, asshole—that’s not fucking news!”

"Yeah, I mean, no fucking shit,” Grif says as he settles down next to Simmons. He rolls his eyes in disbelief, shaking his head as he stares back at Tucker. “Why don’t you tell us what color the sky is outside while you’re at it? Because it _looks_ blue, but how are we supposed to know for sure unless you say it out loud?”

"What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands. There's a defiant anger sparking in him now; he hates that they thought this confession was inevitable, especially when Tucker had no clue himself.

“‘What’s that supposed to _mean_?’” Simmons repeats in exasperation, "You talk about him all the time, you kept going off to be alone with him for no reason, and you spent an entire fucking week bitching about how you couldn’t stop picturing him naked. What the fuck did you _think_ was going on?”

“Not to mention that time you felt him up by the pool,” Grif points out snarkily, “That was pretty obvious. I’m pretty sure Caboose thinks the two of you are going to get married soon.”

Tucker considers their words long and hard. They have a point, he thinks reluctantly, even if they came to the wrong conclusions. Or wait, no, the right conclusions. Fuck. He just wonders how he could be so oblivious to his own feelings when they were apparently obvious to all the people who knew him best.

“Maybe I am a fucking idiot,” he admits.

 

* * *

 

But if he's an idiot, then so are his friends, because the best advice they can think of for dealing with Wash involves going over to his house with a couple of six packs of beer and getting each other drunk until Wash forgets about his standards and Tucker forgets about maybe being straight.

"You guys are assholes," he tells them before he leaves, but he goes to get a couple of six packs regardless and finds that they're right about one thing—some things are so much easier once Tucker's got a few beers in him.

"He's got these muscles, y'know? That make his arms all, y'know," he says. Tucker flaps his arms in the air in example, though he thinks it makes him look more like a chicken than anything else. "And it's not just his arms, either, because when he bends over—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure I get the idea," Reggie says, looking faintly disturbed, "But why are you talking to me about this?"

Tucker scowls darkly back at him, then takes another drink of his beer. "'It's 'cause you owe me one," he shoots back emphatically, "Because of that time you accidentally kidnapped my kid."

Reggie sniffs. "He told me that you said it was fine."

"I don't care what a five year old tells you. You don't take them to a park without getting their parent's permission."

"Hmm," Reggie says, "Fair point."

Tucker nods in agreement with himself, and then promptly goes back to thinking about Washington. "And it's like, you remember that time by the pool?"

Reggie looks like he's not sure he likes where this is heading.

"Yeah," Tucker says, "Because I thought I was straight, but I really liked the way he acted when I brushed up against his thigh, you know? And I'm beginning to think that's a little gay."

"Yes, good show," Reggie says drily, "Very smart of you."

"Shut up," Tucker says with a grumpy frown, "This is a big deal for me, okay?"

"I'm sure it is," Reggie replies.

Tucker squints at him suspiciously, unsure of whether or not he's being mocked. But Reggie seems to be taking him seriously enough—more so, Tucker admits, than at least half of their friends.

"So, like, whatever," Tucker says, "I guess I kinda want an outsider's opinion? Because we kinda don't care about each other. I mean, 'cause I hate you. But that's only because of the kid thing. Anyway, do you think I'm straight or not?"

"Not in the slightest," Reggie tells him.

"Yeah," Tucker says, "That's what I thought you'd say."

And oddly enough, he's beginning to agree.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Tucker opens his eyes to the sight of Church's living room ceiling. "Wait, what?" he says as soon as he wakes up completely, "How did I get here last night?"

"Mr. Reggie brought you here," Junior says from his position in front of the TV.

Tucker peers at him through bleary eyes and a pounding headache that makes it hard to think. "Okay," he says, eyeing the blankets set up around Junior, "So how did you get here then?

"Uncle Church came and got me from Sheila," Junior responds, "And he brought me here." Junior pauses, looking vaguely smug. "He said I didn't have to go to school today because he had a day off from work and didn't feel like taking me."

Tucker reels up so fast he actually gets dizzy.

"Oh, fuck," he swears. " _Work_."

"Relax," Church says as he walks out the bedroom, "I already had Simmons call out for you."

"Oh," Tucker says, relaxing back into the cushions, "Yeah, thanks for that."

Church snorts in disbelief. "What, that's it?" he says, "'Thanks for that?'" He sidles around the couch and shoves Tucker's legs to the side, sitting where they once were. "That's seriously all you have to say for yourself?"

"Yeah?" Tucker says, "Why, what else would I say?"

"How about, 'Sorry for being the kind of asshole that gets drunk on a weekday and makes his friends take care of him?'"

Tucker scoffs. "Oh, yeah right," he says indignantly, kicking out at Church's knee, "Do you remember how many times I had to pick you up off the floor after Tex stole all your stuff and left you again?"

"Three times," Junior says helpfully.

"Try fucking seven," Tucker replies with a smirk, explaining further when Junior tilts his head in confusion, "A couple of those times happened before you were born, you know. Or when you were too little to remember."

“Yeah, well,” Church replies, “At least I never made you listen to me talk about how much I want to feel Tex’s abs.”

Tucker feels all the blood drain from his face.

“W-What?” he stammers, “What are you talking about?”

Church smirks. “I’d say I had no idea you felt that way about Washington, but..."

“Feel what way about Wash?” Junior asks curiously.

Tucker swears his heart stops beating. His eyes go wide as the air is suddenly sucked from his lungs, and he stares at Junior in horrified dismay, choking from the sudden force of his distress.

Junior looks back uncertainly.

“Uh,” Church says, as if it weren't him who ruined things forever, “I guess I’ll leave the two of you alone.” He looks back and forth between the two for a moment, then sends an apologetic look at Tucker before scurrying off into the bedroom.

"Thanks a fucking lot, Church," Tucker mutters as he watches him go.

"Dad?"

Tucker flinches at the sound.

"...Dad?" Junior says again, sounding far more hesitant this time.

Tucker swallows hard. "Hey, Junior," he begins nervously, unable to hold the words in any longer, "You wouldn't hate me if I started dating dudes, would you? I mean, it wouldn't bother you, right?"

Junior goes completely still in his surprise, but to his credit, he actually thinks about it seriously. "Doctor DuFresne dates boys," he works out slowly, "And Donut too. And Sister dates girls sometimes."

"Yeah," Tucker says past the lump in his throat, "But they aren't me."

Junior nods solemnly.

"So," Tucker says, "Are you okay with it?"

Instead of answering the question, Junior peers at him shyly from behind his curtain of curls and asks, "Are you going to be boyfriends with Mr. Washington?"

Tucker freaks out inwardly at the words. Even if it might be true, even if it might be what he really wants, it's still really fucking weird to hear someone say it out loud—especially when that person is a nine year old boy who shouldn't have any idea about what's going on in his dad's head.

"Why would you say that?" he asks tensely.

Junior tilts his head. “You asked him out in our kitchen,” he points out, “And you tried to cook for him, even though you said you don’t cook for anybody but me. But you cooked for Sister one time and then I saw you kissing at the beach. So I guess you want to kiss Mr. Washington, too.”

Tucker fidgets with the edge of his blanket. “And you’re okay with that?” he asks, blinking hard against the emotion that wants to well up. He ducks his head and glances away, then anxiously glances back at him. “Like, I’m not saying I _do_ , but if I _did_ want to ask Wash out, you wouldn’t have a problem with that, would you?”

Junior looks down at his lap and says nothing, purposely avoiding Tucker’s eyes.

Tucker’s heart sinks in his chest. He waits a long time for a response, unwilling to push his son either way, even though he kind of gets the feeling that he already knows what the answer is going to be. He opens his mouth to say something—what, he doesn’t know—but it all proves unnecessary when Junior opens his mouth and speaks.

“Theta likes him,” Junior begins carefully, still frowning down at his lap, “And he was nice to me when he taught me skateboarding. And he didn’t let me win at Mario Kart like the other grownups do.”

Tucker clears his throat. “Yeah?”

Junior looks up, dark eyes piercing into his own, and nods. “I like him,” he says decisively, “So I guess it’s okay. You can date him if you want to.”

Tucker smile begins to grow and grow until he's beaming so broadly that his cheeks begins to hurt. He reaches across the few feet dividing them and yanks Junior into his arms, burying his face in his son's hair. "You are so fucking awesome," he whispers fervently, grateful for this amazing kid.

 

* * *

 

“I’m still mad at you,” Tucker says later. Church scoffs and doesn't look the slightest bit guilty, as though he doesn't think that he was in the wrong. "I'm just saying, you outed me to my kid. That's pretty fucked up."

"Oh, boohoo, your kid loves you and doesn't give a shit," Church replies with a snort, "Yeah, I feel so fucking bad for you. I don't know how I'll ever get over the guilt."

"That's not the point," Tucker says, because it isn't, "That's like outing me to my _mom_."

Church looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, and how'd _that_ go?"

Tucker looks away. He can feel Church waiting expectantly, but he doesn't want to respond just yet; he knows the reaction he's going to get, and he's not in the mood to get any flack for his decision.

"Tucker..."

"She's like, really religious," Tucker blurts out, "I don't know how she's gonna respond."

"Oh," Church says, looking uncommonly grim, "Yeah, I kinda forgot about that." He scratches his head, looking sheepish and sorry, which is so unlike him that Tucker immediately accepts the unspoken apology.

They walk to the door in total silence, muted at the thought of how Tucker's mom could react to the news. Even Junior stays quiet as they go, somehow picking up on the vibe in the room. He's always been sensitive that way.

"Hey, Church?" Tucker says hesitantly, "Do you think I could talk to you about one more thing? I mean, about Wash. Because Reggie and I—"

Church halts immediately. "No. Screw you, Tucker, we are not doing this again!" he says, "And do you know why? Because you are gonna stop pussyfooting around and you’re gonna call Wash up so I don’t have to hear you whining about it anymore. Now get the fuck out of my apartment.”

He shoves Tucker out the door and slams it in his face.

“That’s great, Church,” Tucker yells sarcastically, “Always good to know that I can talk to you about the important things!”

He stares at the door, just fuming for a moment until Junior turns to him with a concerned look and knocks every other thought out of his mind. "Why don't you want to tell Grandma about you and Mr. Washington?" Junior asks, "Do you think she's gonna be mad at you?"

"Yeah, Junior," he admits, "I'm afraid she's gonna be mad at me."

Junior considers that. "But why would she be mad?"

Tucker runs his fingers through his hair, wincing when it snags a tangled curl. "Because some people are dicks," he explains roughly, "And don't like it when guys like guys or girls like girls."

"Oh," Junior says in a thoughtful voice, "Does that mean Grandma is a dick?"

Tucker stares down at Junior and thinks about admonishing him. But fuck it, he thinks, if she is then she is, and nothing's going to change that for any of them. "I don't know," he tells Junior a little bit sadly, "I don't know if she's a dick or not."

And he's not entirely sure if he wants to find out.

 

* * *

 

He sits on the question all week long, debating whether to make the call or not. Junior helps as best as he can, offering to make coffee when he's staring at the phone in the morning, or dinner when Tucker is pacing the floor at night.

Tucker's just distressed enough to accept the offer.

"I think I'm gonna call her tonight," Tucker says as he takes a large bite out of his bologna and cheese sandwich, "You know, before the weekend comes and she's reminded of church. Plus, she'll totally be so exhausted from work that she doesn't have the energy to yell at me."

"Won't she be grumpy?" Junior points out, "Sometimes you're grumpy when you come home from work."

Tucker tilts his head, debating the odds. “Yeah, but I think I’m gonna have to take the chance,” he tells Junior, “Because I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

Not with Washington and not with himself.

So he takes a deep breath and presses the screen above his mother’s name, waiting reluctantly for a reply.

"Vern!" is the first thing he hears.

Tucker winces at the familiar nickname. He hated being called that and always has, preferring either his first or last name—not that his mother ever payed attention to that. “Hi, Mom,” he says, “How’re things?”

“Things are great,” she replies, “How’s my grandson?”

Tucker snorts, relaxing a little at the response. “Oh, sure,” he teases, “I see how it is. You ask about your grandson but not about me. Guess I don’t matter as much as he does.”

“Well, he does call me more than you do.”

Tucker tries his best to laugh that off even though he knows she’s serious. She’s right, to be honest, and he knows it, but he’s just been busy lately, that’s all. Caught up in a bunch of other things. Calling his mom up just kind of fell by the wayside.

But Tucker apologizes anyway.

“Sorry, Mom,” he says, “I’ve just had a lot going on.”

“That’s what Leonard’s been telling me,” she replies to Tucker’s complete and utter shock, “He says you’ve been down lately. I didn’t want to bother you, though, so I waited for you to come to me.”

“For the record,” Tucker says slowly, “We’re talking about the Director, right?”

“Well, who else would I be talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker replies, making a weird face at the thought of them being friendly, “Anybody but him? Since when do you two talk to each other, anyway?”

“Since your father died, baby,” his mom says gently, “He promised me he’d always keep an eye on you.”

Tucker swallows hard.

"Okay," he says, "Okay, I—"

"Just tell me what's been going on with you," his mother says, still using that soft tone in her voice that always brings him back to his childhood. He feels like a lost little boy again, or a kid waking up from a nightmare expecting his mom to make everything alright.

And for a moment, he actually thinks that she can.

"Momma," he says, "Momma, there's this guy. I think I like him."

She's quiet for a very long time, taking it in while Tucker waits there barely breathing. His fists clench tighter with every second that passes, nails biting deep into flesh until Junior comes up next to him and leans into his side, comforting him wordlessly.

And then his mom says something that has his heart stopping.

"Is this about you and that Church boy?"

Tucker chokes on absolutely nothing, "W-What?" he says in a strangled voice, "What the f—heck are you talking about?"

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "You and that Church boy you followed everywhere," she says as if it were obvious, "You used to have the biggest crush on him when you were in junior high."

"No, I didn't!" Tucker protests, "I had a crush on _Carolina!_ "

"You had a crush on both of them," she corrects. She huffs out, sounding amused. "You never could make up your mind between them, always acting like you didn't know which of them you wanted to kiss more."

"No way," Tucker says blindly, "No way, no way."

"Oh, calm down," his mother replies, "You got over it soon enough—not that it ever stopped you from running after them like they hung the moon and stars. For awhile I thought you were going to try to marry them both."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Tucker says.

“You’re exaggerating,” she replies.

“No,” Tucker says, “Really, I’m gonna hurl.”

Leave it to his mother to traumatize him forever.

"Well, if it's not Church, then who is it?"

Tucker takes his hand from his mouth and feels his stomach quiver again. He’s not nervous, not exactly, not after finding out that his mother apparently knew before he did, but he wants to leave a good impression.  A good impression on Wash’s behalf.

“There’s this guy,” he says again, “I met him a year ago. He's one of Carolina's friends."

"An older man?" his mom asks thoughtfully.

"I guess," Tucker says, though he's never thought about it before, "Only by like five or six years, though. That's not that much older."

"He's really cool!" Junior yells suddenly, loud enough to be heard over the other line. He looks up at his dad and grins conspiratorially, laughing when Tucker gives him a surprised look. "He taught me how to skateboard!"

"You introduced him to Junior?" his mother says in surprise.

"Yeah," Tucker says, "Well, sort of, I mean. Theta's really the one who introduced them. Wash is kinda like his uncle or something."

"Theta introduced them?" his mother echoes, "Well, that explains why Junior likes him so much. I've never met anybody that boy looked up to more."

"Nah, that's not it," Tucker says, shaking his head as though she can see, "He really is...Wash is cool, you know? You're gonna like him. He's not...he's a good guy. You're really gonna like him."

Tucker cringes inside, just a little. He's not supposed to be like this. He's not supposed to care this much. But the time for disinterest passed a long time ago and Tucker is not above pleading his case.

"He's...he's serious and he's stupidly polite, but he can be funny too. And he's nice, too. And I know I don't usually like nice, but—"

"Vern," his mother interrupts, silencing him immediately. She waits to make sure he won't continue, patient in a way Tucker never picked up. "Honey, if you and Junior like him as much as you say you do, then I'm sure I'll like him just as much."

"Thanks, momma," Tucker says softly.

That's all he ever wanted to know.

 

Later on, when they've hung up the phone and his son is preparing to leave him for the weekend, he sends Washington a text. It reads, simply: I finally have an answer for you.

 


	17. Beginnings

The minute Tucker hangs up the phone with Washington, he's back on his cell phone calling Church. "I think I have a date with Wash," he blurts out in a vaguely terrified voice, wincing at how pathetic he sounds.

"What do you mean _think?_ " Church asks, then says, "Actually, you know what? Don't tell me. I really don't care."

Tucker ignores him the way that he always does. "Well, like, he just said he wanted to talk in person, right?" he says, "But he wanted to meet somewhere, so I suggested going to our diner—"

"You two already have a diner?" Church asks. He snorts, and a mocking tone enters his voice. "Tucker, I think you're already dating."

The flush rises up again, this time from pleasure instead of embarrassment. "Anyway," he says, "Anyway, if you're going out to eat with someone on a Friday night, it totally counts as a date, right? It's like a rule or something."

Church scoffs. “Right, so if you and I go out for pizza, that automatically means we want to bump uglies on the living room rug.”

“Ugh, enough,” Tucker says. He already had enough of his mom insinuating things like that; he doesn’t want to have to listen to it with Church, too. “It’s totally different. Wash and I actually _want_ to—”

He halts, words stalling in his throat as Church snickers helplessly.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Tucker says, unsure of whether he’s lying or not. He still doesn’t have everything worked out completely. He doesn’t think that Wash expects him to, but at the end of the day he doesn’t know for sure. He just has to hope that what he does have figured out is enough for them both and hope that Washington takes it slow from there.

"Anyway,” he says again, pushing the worries from his mind, “Wash just said he wants to talk in person. What do you think that means?"

"Well, I don’t know, Tucker," Church says sarcastically, "I think it means he wants to talk in person.”

"You know what I mean," Tucker grumbles, “I mean, do you think _he_ thinks this is a date, too? Or am I just fucking making shit up because I want it to be true?”

"When are you going to get it through your head that I don't actually give a shit what happens between the two of you?"

"When you stop helping me with it," Tucker replies.

"Huh. Good point."

"I know, right?" Tucker says. And it's not like it has any chance of changing—for all that Church likes to talk a big game, he's a sucker when it comes to helping his friends. He's just kind of an ass about it, that's all. "So what do you think? Date or no date?"

"No date," Church says instantaneously.

Tucker frowns. "No, but for real."

Church sighs in irritation. "Look, Tucker, I know Wash, okay?" he says, "And if he says he just wants to meet to talk, then he's not looking for a date."

Tucker considers that carefully. "But what if I want it to be a date?"

"Then maybe you should think about what Wash wants for once."

Tucker has nothing to say to that.

 

* * *

 

The thing is...

The thing is that Tucker _really_ needs for this to be a date, because if it isn't then he might have to actually talk about things and he's not entirely sure that he's prepared to deal with that. Y’know, without freaking out about it any more than he already is. Like, fuck, it's not that he doesn't know what he wants, but he only just got through talking about it with everyone else. Why should he have to do it all over again?

“Are you seriously gonna chicken out a few days before your big date?”

“It’s not a date,” Tucker grumbles, even though he wishes it were.

Grif snorts. “You two are meeting up on a Friday night for dinner,” he points out, “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a date to me.”

Tucker flails his hands. “That’s what _I_ said!” he replies, “But Church was all, ‘That’s just something you do with friends’ and now I have no fucking idea what’s going on. I mean, I think it’s a date, but who the fuck knows what we’re doing anymore? And I can’t ask Wash, because that’ll just fuck things up if I’m wrong!”

“Wow, say fuck a few more times,” Grif says.

“Fuck you,” Tucker obliges.

Grif snorts again, looking far too amused for Tucker's liking. "So, what, you're gonna take relationship advice from a guy who breaks up with his girlfriend once a year? Yeah, that sounds smart."

"Yeah, but he said he's known Wash for like seven years," Tucker explains with a frown, "That's way longer than I've known him. Hell, that's way longer than _Doc's_ known him, and they dated each other for awhile."

"Yeah, so what?"

Tucker tilts his head in confusion. "What?"

"So what?" Grif repeats stubbornly, "Who the fuck cares how long you've known him? I've known Simmons for almost my entire life and that doesn't mean _shit_ at the end of the day."

"Uh, it kinda does," Tucker replies, because Grif and Simmons are tighter than just about anyone he's ever met. If that's a lie, then what about gravity? What about the Earth revolving around the sun? "Are you two having some kind of couple's argument?"

"Tucker!"

"Okay, okay," Tucker says quickly, hands flying up to ward off any potential punching, "I get it. No more talking about you and Simmons." Even if Grif was the one to bring him up. "Can we go back to my problems now?"

Slowly, Grif relaxes again.

"Look, all I'm saying is that you can know somebody for-fucking-ever and still get your signals crossed from time to time," Grif tells him. "So just because Church says it isn't a date doesn't mean that he's right about it."

"It doesn't mean he's wrong, either," Tucker replies.

"So?" Grif says. He leans back into the couch cushions with a scowl on his face that seems less angry than it is put out. "You realize that Wash is gonna make you talk about it whether it's a date or not, right?"

"So it doesn't matter?" Tucker says doubtfully.

That doesn't exactly sound right to him. But if Grif's right and he's screwed either way, then maybe he needs to worry more, not less. Maybe he needs to go back to freaking out about everything else.

Great. Just great.

So what do you wear for a maybe date anyway?

 

* * *

 

Something similar to what he wore before, apparently.

He shows up at the diner dressed in clothes that have seen better days. Clothes that are ripped the way he knows Washington likes and tight in a way that shows off his muscles. Clothes that are so close to what he wore that day that Tucker was half-afraid to wear them.

At least Wash is dressed nothing like he was that day. Instead of wearing jeans and a t-shirt, Washington is in the kind of clothing that looks out of place with their surroundings: a suit jacket and a button down shirt, perfect for a date in a restaurant, not a diner.

There's something off about that—about the way that Wash looks—but Tucker ignores it and strolls over anyway with a swagger to his step that wasn't there before. "Hi," he says as he settles down in front of Wash, "Pretty over-dressed for a date here, don't you think?"

Wash startles, looking suddenly guilty. "I—about that—"

Tucker laughs, ignoring the falseness in his own voice. "Don't worry about it," he says, "It's cool, I already know that you're into me."

"Tucker—"

Tucker reaches for the menu. There's a torn piece of plastic covering the paper. He fiddles with it nervously, pulling it off like a bandaid on a still open wound. "So are you ready to order, or what?" he says for want of anything better to say, "Because I'm thinking about getting a turkey club this time, and—"

"This isn't going to work," Washington blurts out.

Tucker feels his heart clenching tight in his chest. "Okay," he says, purposely misconstruing things, "I can always get a hamburger instead."

"No, Tucker," Wash says in a pained voice, "It isn't going to work between us."

"Okay," Tucker repeats blindly.

Washington fidgets. "I'm already seeing someone."

Tucker goes completely still.

He must not have heard Washington right. He couldn't have, it isn't possible. There's no way Wash could've moved on from Tucker that fast. But then, a dark voice inside of him whispers, it's not like they were ever dating in the first place.

Washington looks away uncomfortably.  "I'm sorry, Tucker," he says in a voice that's filled with regret, "But how long did you expect me to wait?"

"I thought," Tucker begins, "I thought you said..."

"I know what I said," Wash says, "I just...I had no idea how long you'd take." He runs shaky fingers through his hair, mussing it up in a way that's unlike him. "And then Tom asked me out again, and—"

" _Tom?_ " Tucker says in disbelief, "That guy from the animal shelter? But you don't even like him! You said you weren't compatible!"

"I know!" Wash says, "But he..." He stops and looks away reluctantly, as if unwilling to continue further. "Well, he asked and you didn't."

"But I was—you told me I could—"

Washington closes his eyes and inhales sharply. When he opens them again, the warm grey is cold and bitter. "Tucker," he says firmly, "I'm sorry, but whatever it is you want to happen here won't."

And Tucker feels his whole world come crashing down around him.

His eyes fly open. He’s sweating hard and his heart is beating wildly out of control, hammering in his chest like it wants out of this whole situation. Tucker doesn’t blame it at all. In fact, he kind of wants to let it go—anything to avoid feeling this crushing anxiety pouring over him at the thought of Wash getting with somebody new.

He takes a minute to try to calm himself down, but his hand is scrambling at his bedside table, searching for a phone that isn't there. He left it in the living room, he remembers, putting it down on the coffee table once he was done talking to Church. His body is already surging up at the memory, throwing the covers off as he flies out of bed.

The phone rings four times before he gets an answer.

"Hey, Wash?" Tucker says as soon as the call goes through, "You'd tell me if you were dating someone else, right?"

"Tucker?" Washington says sleepily, "Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"

"You said I could call you if I had a nightmare," Tucker says without thinking, and promptly slaps a hand against his forehead loud enough for Washington to hear.

Washington pauses. Tucker can mentally hear him connecting the dots. "You had a nightmare about me dating someone?"

"No," Tucker lies.

An embarrassed silence fills the air.

"I'm gonna hang up the phone now."

"Maybe that's for the best," Wash says.

 

* * *

 

After that humiliating little episode, Tucker is unable to get back to sleep. He tries to tell himself it's because of all that fried food he had the night before, but truthfully, the dream he had keeps echoing inside of his head and it makes it impossible to settle down all night.

He's still thinking about it two days later; about what he's gonna do if Washington doesn’t want him anymore.

“Knowing you? Probably cry.”

“Dude, don’t be a dick,” Tucker retorts, “I’m not gonna cry about anything, alright? And I’m not gonna go around acting like it’s the end of the world just because some guy turned me down. I’ll just…” He falters at the thought. “I don’t know, get over it, I guess.”

Church watches him in total silence.

Tucker shakes his head hard. "It's fine," he says, "If Wash doesn't want me, I'll get over it and we'll go go back to being friends. And then everything will go back to normal because it's _not a big deal_."

Church sighs. “You know, I’ve broken up with Tex a lot of times—“

“You mean she’s broken up with you a lot of times," Tucker says automatically.

“Tucker, I’m trying to tell you something right now, so do me a favor and shut your stupid face,” Church bites out, stabbing a finger in his direction. Tucker rolls his eyes, but waits for Church to keep on talking. "All I’m saying is that Tex and I have broken up a lot of times in the past, but I don’t think either of us was ever once able to go back to being just friends.”

“That’s different,” Tucker points out, “We’re not like you and Tex. You two have been together forever. You love each other. Wash and I…we just like each other a lot, I guess. It’s not the same.”

“Yeah, okay, you’ve got a point there. But you know what, Tucker? You and Wash were never just friends,” Church says ruthlessly, “So you can try as hard as you want to pretend like everything’s going to be the same, but I don’t think this stupid little plan of yours is going to work.”

And he can’t argue with that, not anymore, because he’s spent all this time looking back on every conversation they’ve ever had and reviewing every time they ever almost touched, and he remembers…

He remembers the beginning.

He remembers the first time they met, the one that counts; he remembers being back in that empty gym with the hard mats and cold floors and a guy who was a totally stranger to him. He remembers taking one look at this serious guy with strong hands and beautiful eyes and deciding that the best possible way to describe him was to think of him as a perfect, spotless house.

Tucker didn’t get the significance of that thought back then, but he gets it now. He gets it so completely and sees it so clearly that he can barely recall what it was like to be blind to the truth all along. Because Washington was a perfect, spotless house and all Tucker wanted was to mess him up until he finally felt like home.

So maybe Church has a point this time.

 

* * *

 

He thinks of that as the week goes on. Thinks of a life without Washington in it the way that he wants him to be. Thinks about being friends with him and only friends. Thinks about learning to be happy that Wash is dating someone new.

He thinks about it even though he doesn't want to.

The drive over to the diner on Friday is the tensest Tucker's been in a very long time. He's beyond nervous—beyond _anything_ that doesn't involve keeping himself two steps from freaking out. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought of Wash's face if Tucker jerks him around one last time by not showing up tonight.

He can barely handle picturing it.

Hell, he can barely handle it so much that he left fifteen minutes earlier than he absolutely had to, determined to get there before Washington did. He doesn't know what he's gonna do while he's waiting, but anything's gotta be better than coming late.

When he gets there, he walks into the diner and takes a deep breath, eyes automatically searching the room. For what, he doesn't know. Some sign that this is all a dream, maybe, and Tucker's about to revisit his worst nightmare in years.

And then he sees him.

Tucker swallows hard. Wash looks...he looks good. Tucker doesn't know what he was expecting, but nevertheless Washington looks the same as always. And he's not overdressed, either, which means Tucker doesn't have to run screaming from the building.  All he's wearing is jeans and a button down shirt, same as—

Wash's eyes flit his way and flood with relief.

 _Now_ Tucker wants to leave the building. He ducks his head, feeling a burst of panic rush through his veins, adrenaline causing him to want to run, to flee the diner without looking back. But Tucker can't do that to Wash, so instead he walks forward with halting steps until he's finally by Washington's side.

“Hey, Wash, what’s up?” Tucker says nervously.

He hovers uselessly by the side of the booth, staring down at Washington for about a minute like the world's most obvious creep. He can't help it though; after all this time, it feels good just to see him again. It feels good to know he can reach out and touch.

So he does.

He reaches out in fascination, slowly poking a finger at Washington's chest as if he's checking to make sure that Wash is real. Only after they make contact does Tucker lean back in satisfaction and throw himself into the seat opposite Wash.

"Nothing much,” Wash says, thankfully not responding to the touch, “What about you?”

Tucker shrugs. He's not really sure what to say to that. Great, now that they're finally doing this? Anxious as fuck because of what could go wrong? He fiddles with the edge of his shirt with sweaty palms, feeling like a teenager on his very first date.

Washington watches him in what looks like relief.

For a second, Tucker doesn't really get why, but then Washington reaches for a napkin to wipe his hands off and suddenly Tucker understands that Wash is just as scared as he is. It calms him enough that he's able to joke about it.

"Dude, can we get anymore awkward about this?" Tucker says as he reaches over to snag a menu. When he opens it, he notices that it has a torn off edge, and for one horrible moment he's convinced that he's dreaming again. In his panic, he slams the menu shut, flinging it down like it's made of fire.

Washington gives him an odd look.

"Uh, don't worry about it," Tucker says.

A tiny smile tugs at Washington’s lips. Strangely, it relaxes him like nothing else could, and he slumps down in his chair with a scowl on his face, pushing back on the grin that wants to appear.

“Shut up,” Tucker says, “Nobody asked you for your opinion.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Washington points out.

“You don’t have to,” Tucker returns, “You just have to sit there mocking me in your head like a total asshole."

Washington’s smile turns into a smirk. “Maybe you should give me less reason.”

"Maybe you should go fuck yourself," Tucker replies.

Washington bursts out laughing.

Tucker can't hide the grin that wants to appear this time. It comes automatically, brought into being by Washington's laughter, like one can't exist without the other one there. It feels good to have Wash there again, to be able to joke around with him and tease each other once more. Afterwards, they just stare at each other in silent fondness, amusement turning into something far softer.

"So...how've you been?" Tucker begins hesitantly.

"Good. I've been good," Washington says, "I've been keeping myself busy."

"Yeah, me too," Tucker lies, because it sounds far less pathetic than, 'I've been moping around the house a lot over you.' Washington doesn't need to know that anyway.  “I’ve even been going running with Junior.”

Washington looks startled, but pleased. “Is that right?”

Tucker nods. “Yeah, I—"

He stops as he notices the waitress heading their way, nodding at her in explanation when Washington gives him a confused look. “You ready to order?” he asks Wash, “‘Cause I already know what I want.”

Washington tilts his head in consideration. “I was thinking of getting the turkey club—"

“No!” Tucker yelps just as the waitress gets to their side. She and Wash both jump a foot in the air, giving him wide-eyed stares of bafflement that makes him cringe back in his seat. “Sorry, Just...no turkey clubs, okay? They suck anyway.”

The waitress looks vaguely affronted.

“Not _here_ ,” Tucker says hastily, “Just, like, in general, okay?”

Washington shakes his head, looking a little embarrassed on Tucker’s behalf. Tucker kind of hates himself for wanting to smile at the familiar sight. “Be that as it may,” Wash says in the driest voice possible, “I think I’ll be getting it anyway.”

Tucker slumps down in his chair. “Fine,” he mutters moodily, avoiding Washington’s gaze when it turns on him at the tone. “ _I’m_ gonna be getting a hamburger, though.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “I think I can handle that.”

“Deluxe or regular?” the waitress asks.

Tucker scoffs at her and shakes his head reprovingly. “Psshh, are you kidding?” he asks her, “Deluxe. _Always_ get the deluxe. Seriously, who orders a hamburger without fries?”

“Uh-huh," the waitress says, "Do you want any drinks with that?”

Tucker glances at Washington. Against his will, another smile starts to form at the familiar gleam in Wash’s eyes. “Two milkshakes,” he replies, “One black and white and the other chocolate."

The waitress nods and takes down their orders, shuffling away with their menus when they tell her that they don’t need anything else. As soon as she's gone, Tucker turns to Washington with an accusatory look and says, "Dude, you're making me all smiley."

Washington blinks hard at the statement, obviously taken aback by the comment.

“Wait," Tucker says quickly, "I didn't say that."

"I think you did," Wash replies.

"Nope," Tucker says, "I definitely didn't say anything."

Washington's lips begin to curl up at the side. "Is that right?" he drawls in a voice that's eerily similar to York's, "Because I distinctly heard you say that—"

“You are hearing things, bro,” Tucker replies stubbornly.

“I’m sure I am,” Washington says.

Thankfully, Wash seems to be willing to let Tucker get away with making the comment, because after the initial teasing, Wash doesn’t say anything at all. He just lets Tucker burn red and smirks at the sight of the faint flush on Tucker’s cheeks.

“So,” Wash says after a minute has passed, “You’ve been keeping up with your exercising?”

“Nah,” Tucker responds, because it’s true, “I only go on runs sometimes. It’s not as bad as you made it sound.”

“I never made it sound bad,” Wash protests.

“Yeah, but you kept threatening to make me do it,” Tucker points out, “So it kind of sounded like you were trying to torture me with it or something.”

Washington huffs. "I wasn't trying to torture you. I just wanted you to—"

"Dude, relax," Tucker says irritably, "I was only joking."

"Oh," Wash says, sounding mollified. He shakes his head as if berating himself, looking way more serious than the situation warrants. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to...I don't want to start an argument. Not tonight."

"What's so special about tonight?"

Washington gives him a _look_.

"Oh," Tucker says.

He takes a chance and lets his foot nudge Wash's under the table. Wash startles at first, surprised by the contact, but soon he's relaxing into the touch, letting their legs slide against each other with a soothing presence that nevertheless has Tucker's heart beating faster.

"What," Washington says, then clears his voice when it cracks noticeably, sitting up straighter as he does, "What is this? What are you doing?"

"Uh," Tucker says, mind going completely blank, "I'm just—"

The waitress saves him by coming over with their drinks, but it weighs at him for the next few minutes, making his thoughts go round and round as he struggles to think of an acceptable response.

His response—when it comes—is not acceptable.

"This is totally a date," Tucker blurts out, "Right?"

Wash fiddles with his straw for a couple of seconds, avoiding Tucker's eyes all the while. "That depends," he says carefully.

"On what?" Tucker asks.

"On what your answer to my question is."

Tucker watches him for a moment without responding, just looking at all of those features he's come to like so much over these past few months. He looks at the dark grey eyes and the straight blond hair and the hands he couldn't help but think about during long nights. He looks at Wash—looks at all of him—and then he finally gives his answer.

"This is a date," Tucker confirms softly.

And Washington? Washington fucking _beams_ in response.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is a whole lot easier after that. They're less skittish, less nervous, less afraid of making stupid mistakes that don't even matter. They're comfortable, or something like it, and it's so much easier to be who they are when they don't have to worry about messing up.

It's not until they're standing outside the diner that Tucker realizes he has no idea what they're going to do next.

"Let's go for a walk," Wash suggests.

Tucker agrees almost immediately. He's not in the mood to stop the night, and he's definitely not in the mood to freak out at the thought of whatever might happen between them when the night ends. Better to put it off for a little while.

They head off in a random direction, walking in silence until they're a few blocks away, arms knocking against each other all the while. It's such a small thing, but Tucker enjoys the contact nonetheless; enjoys it the way he enjoys the tiny smiles Wash keeps sending his way and the way their fingers brush when they walk. He enjoys it all the way up to the point where Washington finally decides to open his mouth.

"You know we have to talk about it sometime," he says in a quiet voice.

"No, we don't," Tucker says immediately, "We can just keep walking down the block."

Washington huffs out in exasperation. "Tucker, we avoided talking about it all night long."

"Yeah, can we keep doing that?" Tucker asks, "Because that's way less embarrassing than whatever it is that I'm gonna say."

"I'm glad you can be honest about that, at least," Washington replies.

Tucker thinks about being offended for a minute, but decides he'd rather be amused. It's better that way and true besides, and it's not like he was mortally wounded by the joke. He couldn't be when he's the one who made it in the first place.

"Very funny, asshole," Tucker says anyway, a smile quirking up on the sides of his lips, "I'll have you know I'm the smoothest guy I know."

"That says more about your friends than it does about you."

"And what does it say about _you?_ " Tucker teases.

Washington blinks hard at the flirtatious tone in his voice, actually reeling from his surprise. Tucker's pretty taken aback himself; it's not that he's upset about flirting, it's just that he didn't know he'd do it until it was done.

But whatever, Tucker decides to go with the flow. He inches closer to Washington on purpose, moving into his personal space as though it were nonexistent—no, as though it were nonexistent for _him_ , because Wash still seems aware of everyone else.

"What are you doing?" Washington asks him again.

"Nothing," Tucker says, though he doesn't know if that's true anymore. He moves forward again, close enough for him to smell the faint hint of cologne wafting off Wash's body. Their mouths are only a small space apart, a fact that Tucker is suddenly hyper aware of.

Washington stares at his lips distractedly. "Tucker?" he says in a voice that's barely a whisper. He swallows hard, throat working in a way that Tucker is almost hypnotized by. "Would you _please_ tell me what you're really doing?"

Tucker leans in and breathes a secret against Washington's lips, "I don't know," he murmurs, "Not talking about it, I guess."

That's all Washington needs to hear. He surges forward, one hand flying up to thread through Tucker's curls while the other cups his cheek like a lover, thumbing Tucker's mouth open in order to lick his way inside.

A moan slips out from between Tucker's lips, little waves of lightning rushing over him with every tug of Washington's fingers, sparks of pain causing his hips to jerk forward in a way that has Wash pulling him in further.

They're breathing hard when they finally tear their lips away from each other, gasping like they haven't had air in weeks and weeks and have been dying from the lack of it. "We should take this somewhere else," Washington says.

"Yeah," Tucker whispers against his mouth, "Let's take it back to yours."

Washington is happy to oblige.

 

* * *

 

Later, when they are curled up on Washington's couch in his big house that's waiting for people to fill it, Wash finally puts some distance between them. "We need to talk about this," he says as he rubs the wetness from his lips.

"Yeah, or we could keep kissing," Tucker suggests.

Washington looks wistful for a second, but soon enough he's shaking his head in a firm negative. "As good as that sounds," he admits, "I'd rather make sure we're both on the same page before we start anything."

Tucker shifts uncomfortably. He was so much more on board with his decision when he didn't have to talk, just feel. That in itself felt like a big deal, and Tucker was content with leaving it at that. Unfortunately, he kind of understands where Wash is coming from.

"Okay," he says, backing away even further, "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what you want from me," Washington says bluntly.

Abruptly, Tucker's mouth dries up. They stare at each other from opposite ends of the couch, the middle cushion a mountain between the two of them, uncertainty on both their faces as they try not to wince at the sudden seriousness of the conversation. Tucker feels his mind go blank at the harsh shift of topic, which is the only excuse that he has for why he says what he does next:

"I want to go on a date with you."

Immediately, Wash's eyes go dark in remembered hurt.

"Wait, no, I didn't mean it like that!" Tucker stammers out, then throws up his hands when rage takes over for the pain; he didn't mean that the way it came out, but Wash isn't likely to understand that, not after last time. "Wait, I mean, I _do_ want to date you!"

Washington's knuckles are white from how tight he's clenching his fists.

"Fuck, I told you I'd mess things up," Tucker says miserably.

"Then be more clear," Washington bites out through gritted teeth, "Or leave now, because I'm not dealing with this a second time."

Tucker fidgets for a moment, drawing a knee up until he's resting most of his weight on it. "I _want_ to date you," he repeats slowly, wanting to get it right this time, "I want to date you, like, all the time."

"But?" Wash asks, giving him a suspicious look.

"But nothing." Tucker replies. He gives Washington an earnest look, though he thinks it comes out more hopeful than anything else. "I'm serious about it this time. I really, really want to date you."

Washington stares at him in complete disbelief for the longest minute of Tucker's life. "Oh," he finally says in a blank voice, "Are you...are you sure about that?"

Tucker nods.

"Oh," Washington says again, "Alright."

Tucker waits, but nothing more comes, and soon his anxiety turns to indignation. "'Alright?'" he echoes incredulously, "That's it? No, 'I don't believe you,' or 'Fucking finally?' Just _alright?_ "

A small smile plays at Wash's lips. "That's right."

"Oh," Tucker says. He leans back into the arm of the chair, contemplating that for a second. He _could_ kick up a fuss about it, but where would that get him anyway? Not making out with somebody he is lucky to get. "So, uh, can we go back to kissing now?"

Washington's smile becomes a full-fledged grin. "We can do that," he says as he leans over the distance between them, sliding his hand past Tucker's hair to cup a palm around his neck.

And then, in a move that has Tucker's breath catching in his throat, Washington halts an inch away from Tucker's lips.

"Wait," Wash says abruptly, voice so tense it causes Tucker to freeze. For a moment he's convinced that Wash has changed his mind, and the blood in his veins runs cold all at once, only getting worse when Wash pulls away with a serious expression on his face.

"What? What's wrong?" he says in a panic.

"Tucker, you need to tell me when I'm messing up."

Tucker inhales sharply, relief causing all the blood to come rushing back to his face all at once. "What?" he asks blindly, "What did you just say?"

"I don't—" Washington begins, his voice cracking in his throat, "I don't know if we're going to last that long, but I don't want to wake up three years into our relationship only to discover that you were miserable all along. So you need to tell me when I'm messing up, because I can't do this if—"

"Fuck yes, I can do that," Tucker says as he gasps for air, "I swear I can. I'll never shut up about it. You will be so fucking sick of me, I promise. Fuck, Wash, are you serious with this right now?"

"Yes. Yes, I am," Washington says as he flushes with pleasure, "That is, if you can uphold your end of the bargain."

"Fuck yeah!" Tucker says giddily. He wiggles happily in his seat while Washington watches with this look in his eye, expression so fond and so happy that Tucker moves almost without thinking about it.

They kiss, and that kiss is so much more different than kissing a woman, so much more different than kissing anyone at all. There's something in it, something that has to do with Wash, with who he and Tucker are and what they've been through together. Something strange and completely exciting.

Something that feels a lot like love.

But that thought is too scary and it's way too soon, and he and Wash aren't prepared for that, not when they're hardly prepared for what they've got. So Tucker keeps that thought to himself and tucks it down deep inside where no one but him can ever see, holding it close until he's ready for everyone else to know what he does.

Its okay, though, because they have all the time in the world for that.

After all, it’s a new year. Anything can happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who stuck with the story this long. I may or may not have an epilogue planned (still haven't decided), but I _definitely_ have a sequel planned, so be on the lookout for that eventually!
> 
> If you have time, run and take a look at this [amazing fanart](http://redvsblu.co.vu/post/112949619978) and [equally amazing fanmix](http://redvsblu.co.vu/post/112953750613) for the series done by [glubbyfishprincess.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/glubbyfishprincess/pseuds/glubbyfishprincess) It's awesome and everyone should see it.


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